


Cursing Cowboy, Thirsty Dragon

by Hades_the_Blingking



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: 76 is such a Team Dad, Bad Pick-Up Lines, Banjo, Cowboy magic, Crack, Fluff, Hanzo is so thirsty, Hanzo's dubious flirting techniques, Humor, Humour, I blame this fic for expanding my county music collection, I'm kinda of scared of Zenpai, I'm such a McCreeaboo please help, Mexican-Style Nantaimori, Multi, Obligatory Starbucks, Reaper sews in style, Shakesperian amounts of cacti, Torbjorns dark secrets, Winston cries, come on McCree literally conjures tumbleweed, death by serape, lack of a towel causes Trauma, lucio is sass maestro, naked Genji, platonic tango, puns, reunited with my one true love: Cowboy Slang, serape kink, some ships and characters are more in the background (there are just so many!!), sorry Iowa, sorry dad, there is nothing serious to be found here, tiramisu spoons, trigger warning: country music, unplanned refrigerator kink, violence against fruit, yodelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-19
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-08-31 19:43:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 31,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8591179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hades_the_Blingking/pseuds/Hades_the_Blingking
Summary: When the relative peace of Overwatch is broken by Jesse McCree's banjo-playing ways, Hanzo takes it into his own hands to retain everyone's sanity. In doing so he makes things oh so much worse, but can't bring himself to (really) hurt the cowboy after certain shower-related incidents. Meanwhile the rest of the team have their own ideas of fun, raids on gangsters are needed, there are too many Dads, Genji stumbles on things he wished he never stumbled on, and if there's one thing the team learn it's to never ever drink Deadlock whiskey. Tune in, it's a lot of fun! :)Comments are very appreciated! n.n





	1. Hanzo Shimada And The Curse Of The Banjo

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE THANKS TO [ frostbittenroots](http://frostbittenroots.tumblr.com/) WHO HELPED ME BRAINSTORM ALL OF THIS! You are the most amazing and so is your blog c:

It all started with a banjo. Hanzo had no clue where fuckhands McCree had got the awful thing from – whether its previous victims had passed it on to the first willing stranger, whether the cowboy had dug it out of the trash where it belonged, or whether Satan himself had reached out of the ground and endowed it upon a man who had no qualms in making earth a living hell. 

They’d all tried to be nice. The first few days of the Twang Plague, they’d taken it as a phase. Why they’d ever thought that a man who’d got stuck in Cowboy Phase at age 10 and never advanced would move on from something like a banjo in a mere few days still haunted Hanzo at night. Well, to say McCree had only been a cowboy from age 10 was probably an underestimation. That man has most likely saddle-swaggered out of the womb with a cowboy hat at high noon on the dot. It wasn’t as if Hanzo disrespected music. It wasn’t as if Hanzo even, dare he say it, disliked country and western. But if he heard the fudged introductory notes of Taylor Swift’s ‘Love Story’ twang on through the walls and make his before-bed meditation even more of an internalized banjo hatefest, hatass in the next room was going to taste some dragon to the face. The archer wondered whether Hige and Hotaru would take pity and destroy The Banjo or whether they’d just go straight for the player’s jugular. Hanzo teetered on the edge of whether he cared enough – his sanity vs Jesse McCree’s banjo playing life – when blessed sweet silence echoed on through the hallways. The dragon did not cry often, but he just about felt a tear of relief prick at his eye. Hanzo took a deep, satisfied breath of incense, shuffled a little on his knees and closed his eyes again, ready to purge his mind of all banjo-related pain in peace.  
_Twang-dang-diddly-dang-ding-dang –_  
“ _COWBOY!_ ” Hanzo roared, booted his door open, stalked out into the hallway, karate kicked McCree’s door open and was met by the sight of the servant of Satan himself, eyes wide and mouth half-open. Without hesitation, the archer strode into the room, grabbed the damn instrument of torture and leapt into the corridor before McCree could say ‘yipikaye’.

And that’s the scene Lucio and Genji stumbled across on the way back to their rooms. Hanzo, with the fire of Murder in his eyes, smashing McCree’s banjo into the ground with cries reminiscent of vehement tennis players, while McCree yelled at him in a dialect Genji could only describe as cowboy.  
“ – belly-up, yer high falautin’, yallar outlaw, what the Sam Hill git your fish in a shindy?? I’ll make you a stretched hemp, knock you galley west, ya four-flushin’ mudsill painted cat, tromp yer goddamn britches for goin’ down knockin’ mine thar plucker int’ a cocked hat – “  
“Is that English –“  
“Shhh.” Lucio held up some sort of recording device and mouthed ‘cowboy rap’ at the ninja with a thumbs up.  
“- ornery as a mama bear with a sore titty – “  
Genji smothered a gasp as McCree dared insult Hanzo’s majestic titty, but his brother seemed so absorbed in his destruction of The Banjo that he hadn’t noticed. Probably for the best; Genji wanted this side of the building to be intact by the time they were done.  
“ - clean yer plough, cultus hindquarters of bad luck – “  
  
As the cowboy presumably insulted his ass, the archer pulled his Sake flask off his hip and tipped it all over the bent, mangled remains of the offensive instrument. Without hesitation, Hanzo whipped his bow off his back and fired an electric arrow at it. At that moment, Tracer joined the corridor corner party, to witness Hanzo cackling like a madman over a burning banjo, as insults streamed out of McCree’s mouth so fast that he could have just been reciting binary code for ‘It’s high noon’.  
“Loves, what – “  
“You done gone too far, ya ten-dollar Stetson on a five cent head!” The taller man snarled and pulled an ounce of tumbleweed from somewhere, then crunched it together with what Genji’s visuals identified as gunpowder and tobacco. “Now I, Jesse McCree hereby curse you Hanzo Shimada, that the ghost of my poor Susy haunt your lily-white ass for a coon’s age!”  
Genji had three thoughts: First of all, McCree had called his banjo Susy. Second of all, Genji was fairly sure that McCree harboured secret cowboy magic and that Hanzo might actually have to watch his back for a vengeful ghost banjo, and thirdly, McCree had just thrown a concoction containing a large amount of gunpowder in the direction of both Hanzo and his banjo-Sake bonfire.

_BOOM._

“Now tell me, the pair of you, why are you here?” Morrison crossed his arms with the Disappointed Dad Toneᵀᴹ, and McCree glowered in the direction of the singed archer that sat beside him.  
“He exploded my banjo!”  
McCree had been enjoying his night, figurin’ out some nice tunes with Susy, when None Honour Left Titty had destroyed his bedroom door and proceeded with an unprovoked attack on an innocent country instrument.  
“Hai. I did explode Jesse McCree’s banjo. Well technically he exploded it, but I set it on fire.” Hanzo bent his head in a short but not very apologetic bow.  
“And there is now a dog-sized hole in the floor, which D.VA almost fell through.” Soldier Dad commented. “Hanzo, I expected better of you.”  
McCree turned to the archer with a smug smirk, and popped a cigar between his teeth.  
“McCree, no smoking till the talk is over.” Morrison pointed at him, but McCree just grinned and chewed the familiar tobacco taste.  
“Think it’s an ol’ smidge late for The Talk, Dad.” The cowboy couldn’t see their commander’s eyes, but he felt the power of their roll from behind that visor. What the younger agents missed was the flash of bewilderment as Soldier 76 tried to imagine Edgelord McSkullface trying to explain the birds and bees to a young Jesse who probably needed everything translated into cowboy metaphors.  
“I’m not your dad.” Morrison broke away from the weirdness of that imagery and sighed with practised ease, then turned back to Hanzo. “Now as I was saying, I expected better of you, but I think what you did was for the best.”  
“Hey!” McCree uncrossed his legs, and it was Hanzo’s turn to let a slightly smug vibe touch that deadpan face.  
“Son, just think of what might have happened if Junkrat had gotten there first. We’d have no watchpoint left.” Morrison turned away to gaze off into his war flashbacks. “And I have lived through the rubble of one home. I can’t do it again.”  
The cowboy rolled his eyes and half expected a single, manly tear to drip out from underneath the man’s visor.  
“Yeah yeah, well I can see that no-one got a taste for good music in this place.” McCree huffed and flipped his hat back onto his head from where it rested in his lap. “I’m gonna head off for a kip if it’s all the same to you.”

As the cowboy jingle-jangled his way out the room, Hanzo looked up to Morrison with confusion.  
“Where will he find fish at this time of night?”  
The commander’s eyebrows dipped into his visor for a second, then he seemed to click. “A kipper’s a fish, Hanzo. A kip is a nap. Don’t worry, the best of us get confused by his English.”  
“Ah.” The archer stood. “And thank you for your leniency on this, commander.”  
“You spared us, son.” Morrison clapped him on the dragonless shoulder, voice thick with gratitude. “You spared us all. Now go ask the other kids if they want their milk warm with the cookies or not.”  
Hanzo nodded and headed out of the briefing room to a blissful night of twang-less peace. Or so he thought.

It was exactly when the clock ticked over to midnight that a steely ping awakened the dragon from his peaceful slumber. With the reflexes of a martial arts master, Hanzo leapt up from his futon, snatched up his bow and...a translucent banjo hovered beside his bed, with a cold blue aura about it. McCree had really outdone himself this time, hadn’t he? And Tracer had probably helped him out. Hotaru and Hige popped up off his skin for a second to take a look at it, made uncertain cooing noises, then snuggled back down against his arm either out of fear or apathy.  
“Very funny.” Hanzo muttered to himself and shot an arrow at the obvious prank. There was a dull thud as the projectile passed through the apparition like smoke and embedded itself into the wall. What? No, please by the ancestors no. No, that couldn’t be possible. McCree couldn’t _actually make_ a banjo haunt him. But the instrument advanced with the most malicious look an inanimate object could give, then slowly, oh so teeth-gratingly slowly, began to play a mangled rendition of Taylor Swift’s ‘Love Story’. That was nice, because it would be a fitting dirge at the cowboy’s funeral.  
  
“McCree!” Hanzo snarled as the horrible country twang continued, and threw his door open. Susy followed him and the plucking picked up in pace, but the archer stopped short at the sight of Bastion as acting door outside the fool’s room.  
“Bastion, move!” Hanzo ground out and aimed between any crack he could find.  
“Boop.” The robot murmured sadly, which could be translated as ‘Let’s not kill each other over a banjo’ or ‘I can’t because I have been sealed here by stupid Cowboy Magic.’ Looked like the murder would have to wait until daytime.  
“McCree!” Hanzo yelled past the square chunk of metal in front of the cowfucker’s door as Susy noodled away with Taylor Swift in the background. “I’m going to kill you!”  
“That’s what you get, ya banjo-murderin’ bastard!” Came the muffled reply, and for the second time that day, the archer contemplated dragon-themed cowboy annihilation. Instead, he just shouted a stream of Japanese insults around Bastion so colourful, they’d put McCree’s garish serape to shame. He didn’t notice Lucio sneak out into the hallway to record another exert for his multi-lingual rap album.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all had a laugh! If you want the full immersive Fanfic Experience, click [here](http://swaglexander-the-great.tumblr.com/post/153365420435/ft-susy-fuckhands-mccreeexe) to hear a smidge of what Hanzo's Banjo Curse might sound like.  
> Join me in my country music hell. [This one](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Utq2j_fYv4Y) goes out to Jesse McCree, as he is, by Hanzo's and the world's definition, a Wanted Man.  
> If you enjoyed this chapter, I would really love to hear what you thought of it! A comment would make my day c: Stay fantastic my buddies, and I look forward to being part of the Overwatch fanfic community! ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*(´༎ຶ ͜ʖ ༎ຶ `)♡*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	2. Pie War.

“And you’re not getting out until you’re clean!”  
McCree sighed as Ana slammed the bathroom door behind him and the cowboy rubbed his pinched ear. Goddamn, everyone was out for his hide today. Thankfully Hanzo seemed too tired so far to have attempted anything, but McCree wouldn’t put it past the bare-breasted beefcake to wait in the shower vent for some kind of Death From Above while he was defenceless. The only reason why he hadn’t challenged Hanzo to a high-noon stakeout over the honour of his banjo was because the man was hotter than a hooker on nickel night and it’d be a sheer waste. For now the Curse of the Ghost Banjo should teach him good and proper about blowing up a cowboy’s instrument.  
  
“I don’t hear the water running!” Ana yelled and McCree decided to get scrubbed up before she tranquilized him and did it herself. The big man laid Peacemaker, his boots and his hat in one corner of the bathroom, chucked his serape, which doubled as his towel on the rail beside the shower and shucked off the rest of his clothes into a pile on the floor. Just for good measure, he checked the vent for any sign of a lurking, murderous Hanzo, then stepped in behind the shower curtain. As soon as he did, the door clicked open.  
“Hey!” McCree yelped as Ana scarpered with his clothes.  
“If I don’t wash these soon, you’ll start to look like Bastion.” She called out over her shoulder and snapped the door shut behind her. Cunning. Cunning, cunning woman, because even if Hanzo hadn’t been out for his blood right now, McCree was pretty sure Morrison would evict him from Overwatch if he chased her around the premises buck-ass nude - or D.Va would livestream the whole thing to ten million people.  
“Dangnamit.” The cowboy sighed and grudgingly headed back under the hot water.

He was halfway through a third, heartfelt, emotional rendition of Cotton-Eye Joe when he heard the door click open again.  
“I’m gittin’ clean, goddamn it Ma.” McCree griped, but Ana didn’t answer. Well that only meant one thing. “C’mon Hanzo, give a man his dignity, unless you’re gunnin’ for a double shower.”  
He grinned and peered around the curtain, then froze as an Overwatch janitor removed his fake robot face to reveal a winged skull tattoo on his bald head.  
“Ain’t chur Ma, nor your pretty boy archer, kid.” There was only one idiot McCree knew who’d tattooed the words ‘Deadlock Rebels’ backwards because he’d done it himself in a mirror.  
“Roadhouse Billy?” McCree squinted as the gangster smirked. “Ain’t seen you since – “  
“Since you deserted us boy. And now I gone done snuck in here for that fine bounty.” Roadhouse Billy drew his gun, and McCree’s eyes fell on the only possible weapon he could lay a hand on. Because this legend might die naked and unlawfully clean, but he was _not_ gonna go down without a fight.

  
Hanzo leaned over his table and admired his selection of arrows he’d lain out for Jesse McCree’s doom as bad Taylor Swift haunted the background. Maybe an electric arrow, to taze him into unconsciousness. Or a net arrow for the sheer humiliation. Or a flash arrow and then a good solid punch to that bearded jaw. Hanzo had revised his contemplated murder a little bit, because Hige had pointed out that if they killed the cowboy, the ghost banjo may never, ever go away. And if that happened, Hanzo was pretty sure he’d go mad and get them all into a situation similar to the one that had lost him his legs. Damn pirates.

The crack of a gunshot snapped Hanzo’s head about. An enemy? McCree trying to get out of his vengeance the easy way? Ana on the warpath to Tracer for stealing her hot pockets again? The archer sprang up and ran out into the hallway. A loud thud came from the bathroom at the end of the corridor, then a very manly snarl. Danger! The dragon notched an arrow and rammed his foot against the bathroom door, because real men don’t have time for door handles.  
“Howdy pard’ner. Looks like someone betcha to it.”  
Oh no.  
There in front of him was a naked, wet Jesse McCree strangling a man with that gaudy serape. Holy shit. That was the most sexy thing Hanzo had ever seen in his entire life. The archer stared. McCree grinned. The Deadlock gangster choked, tastefully positioned over McCree’s crotch. Susy twanged ‘Love Story’ in the background.  
“You ‘k there? Yer nose is bleedin’.” The cursed cowboy just smiled like this wasn’t a picture of perfect, naked serape murder. So Hanzo did the only thing his brain could think of: clapped his hand over his blood nose and ran.

While McCree got mugged in the shower by a man named Roadhouse Billy and Hanzo had a hot cowboy crisis, some other members of Overwatch actually had missions. Tracer’s self-set mission, at this particular point in time, was to re-enact a particularly good LAD Bible prank on the first unfortunate member of Talon that crossed her path. That certain someone just happened to be a poised, elegant French assassin.  
“Allo love!” Tracer grinned as the seductive Widowmaker turned on those arched high heels. But all her wicked charm didn’t stop the picture of beauty and grace from getting a cream pie directly in the face.  
“Smile!” Tracer grinned and snapped a shot of Windowmaker’s utter appalled shock. Oh this was better than gold!  
“You tiny, British midget hyena!” The sniper gasped as cream slithered down into all the spots one certainly does not want cream to slither down to. But instead of hefting her gun, the French woman scooped a handful of the goo and tried to hurl it back at the fleet-footed agent “I’ll get you back for this you aggressive little elf!”  
Widowmaker turned to her comm. “Reaper, assistance required!”  
Oop. That was her cue to scamper. So Tracer took another quick photograph and zoomed off to find more pies.

Jack Morrison stretched out on a lawn chair on his one day off in floral shorts and jandals over his socks. The sun was warm, the breeze just right and he had a nice cool beer. Perfect. Pharah had jumped at the chance to lead an assault on Talon, and Morrison trusted her – she’d make a great commander when he –  
“B͝͝͝Y͘̕ ͜͝P͡I̧͞͠E͟͢ Y̷͏̡O͠U͏̴ ̵͘D̵I̵E̵.”  
_Splat!_  
“GABE WHAT THE FUCK!” Morrison roared as black ooze dripped off his visor.  
“YO͠U͝ BROƯG̶HT̕ T̕H͝IS ͝U̴P̶O̢N Y̛O̸UR̕S͠ĘLF̷.” Drama King of the Century crowed as Soldier’s in-built screen-wipers squeegeed some of the goo away, but he couldn’t resist just trying a little bit because Gabe’s cooking was, well, Gabe’s cooking. It was cream. What the fuck.  
“How in the gosh darn did you make cream black??” Morrison glared at Sith Lord Gordon Ramsey and the other man just laughed like he hadn’t just pied a defenceless comman-dad in the face. “And how are you at our watchpoint? And you’re out in the sunlight, my god!”  
But Reaper had already noodled off into the shadows, because with the amount of black layers he was wearing, he’d probably die of heatstroke if he stayed exposed too long.  
“I’ll get you back for this, asshole!” Morrison shook his fist at the retreating laughter like an old man with kids on his lawn. Then he clicked on his comm. “Reinhardt? Fire up the oven.”

Things got messy fast. Talon and Overwatch kind of got sidelined in the face of the Pie War. McCree got bribed onto Reaper’s side by the promise of authentic Mexican food, as was Torbjörn when he tasted a speck of Reaper’s delicious Emo Pie. The Swedish Dwarf rigged up sentry gun that fired a conveyor belt of batch prepared pies at anyone that got close, but then Symmetra caught on and soon both mechanics had just buried each other under mountains of cream and pastry.  
Mercy and Pharah made a hellish tag team for their commander – Mercy held the pastries as Pharah rained them down from above on any unfortunate soul they came across. In a moment of foresight, Ana put both Junkrat and Roadhog into comas before the pastries got explosive, then got back to the festivities. Of course, while everybody else had their fun, there were the personal vendettas – Tracer and Widow played Pied and Seek, where Tracer would zoom around in search of the Seductive Spider while the sniper laid pie traps for her at every corner. Hanzo handed his bow to Genji, cracked his knuckles, then stormed into battle with the sound of terrible Taylor Swift banjo on his tail wherever he went, and they found McCree drenched in custard and pinned to a wall by tiramisu spoons five hours later. But it was on the front line the war waged hottest – Reaper and Soldier 76 seemed to be locked in a fight to the death; Edgelord crippled his opponent with Dark Pie Puns while Comman-Dad had rigged his sights to calculate pastries as a projectile.

“What do you think of all this, Zenyatta?” Genji and the robot squad perched up on the highest tower of Pie War town. Neither he, Zenyatta or Bastion really wanted to try and scrub cream out of their joints, but it was fun to watch Reaper appear behind their commander and squash a pie on to his head so that the top looked like some weird tinfoil hat. If one squinted, you could dare to say that the Angel of Death was having fun. Then again, when #1 Dad shoved one of Mei’s ice-cream cakes down his robe in retaliation, Genji recalled that thought.  
“Pies are more peaceful than guns, Apprentice Shimada. Feel blessed our fortunes are free of violence for today.” Zenyatta quipped, and Genji was never quite sure if the robot Master came up with this stuff off the top of his head or had studied fortune cookies for years on end.  
Then It happened.  
He didn’t see it coming. Bastion didn’t see it coming. Reinhardt and D.Va’s game of pie cricket came to disaster as a cream pie splatted the monk directly in the face and stuck.  
“Genji.” Zenyatta’s voice was muffled, but still calm. The ninja bit his cheeks hard to stop an undignified, inappropriate snort of laughter.  
“Yes...Master.” Genji managed out as the robot turned to him, cream pie stuck firm in place. Not Reinhardt, nor D.Va, nor anyone else had noticed where the stray cricket pie had gone.  
“Be a dear and fetch me some pies.” 

Not only did Genji get him some pies, but also a felt-tip pen with which he drew a smiley face on the white back of the tin still stuck to the monk’s face. In all honesty, it was terrifying. Zenyatta became One with the pies. He was a whirlwind of floating pastry, with a haunting felt-tip smile that nobody expected. It took ten minutes for him to KO both sides, and the great zen master hovered above their pied bodies, put his fingers together and sighed.  
“Ahh. Experience tranquillity.”  
Genji swore he heard the robot mutter ‘bitches’ in a muffled undertone, but Zenyatta would never do that. Would he?  
“We’re missing some.” The ninja separated some of their friends with a sticky schloop. “The Commander and Reaper aren’t here, neither is Tracer, Widowmaker or McCree.”  
“Genji, I trust you to find the Commander. I shall search for our Tracer and the unwholesome assassin, and Bastion, would you locate our cowboy friend?” Zenyatta’s felt tip face was creeping Genji out way too much, and if he was Tracer being hunted by that, he’d have nightmares for weeks. So the cyborg reached up and peeled off the pie.  
“Thank you Genji.” The monk nodded with infinite calm, then floated off into the pastry-spattered distance. The younger Shimada flicked on 76’s GPS and headed toward the signal.

Genji crept around the building, on guard for an emo catchphrase, but there was only an odd rhythmic thump from a room to his left. A room with a trail of black cream that led across the floor and into the closet. What…  
“ – in the refrigerator, - “ Reaper’s soul-chilling voice rumbled out of the closet, and Genji froze in confusion. Did he just say…?  
“Oh talk dirty to me!” Soldier 76 growled from the same closet and the ninja felt rooted to the spot, like someone watching McCree eat 10 burritos in 3 minutes; mesmerized but horrified all in one.  
“The door’s closed – “  
“Oh!”  
“The light’s out – “  
“Yes!”  
“The eggs are cooling – “  
“Yes! yes!”  
“The butter’s getting…hard – “  
“More, Gabe, more!”  
“And the jello is – “  
_“Please!”_  
_“Jiggling.”_  
“Ah!”  
“ ̶D͡EAT͏H̷̵ C̴OM͝ES̵.”  
Nope. Genji was 100% sure that Soldier 76 was definitely not at all in need of any kind of assistance at all whatsoever. He was also sure he’d just lost about 10 years of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you have not heard Reaper's refrigerator dirty talk voiceline, for the love of Torbjörn's beard, [listen to it](http://swaglexander-the-great.tumblr.com/post/153661406130/reaper-the-refrigerator) ;P  
> The country music continues: Since this chapter is about war, here's [a country music song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2tN875A3Bj8) also about war. Have fun 8) ʲᵒᶦᶰ ᵐᵉ ʲᵒᶦᶰ ᵐᵉ ʲᵒᶦᶰ ᵐᵉ ᶦᶰ ᵐʸ ʰᵉᶫᶫᶫᶫᶫᶫ  
> But if you liked the chapter, I would love to hear what you thought of it! Leave a comment or some kudos if you like, it really does make my day. Thank you to everyone who has left comments and kudos already, you are all so wonderful! ^.^ Stay awesome my buddies! ヽ༼ ≧ ل͜ ≦ ༽ﾉ  
> Also: HAPPY BIRTHDAY FROSTBITTENROOTS ILY ♥♥ *hugs*
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	3. Reap What You Sew

Tracer knew she wasn’t in the Overwatch base, because loud organ music at the unholy time of 9am shattered her peaceful sleep. Well unless McCree had moved on to key instruments, but she kinda hoped that wasn’t true; they all had enough to deal with regarding the eternal twang of Hanzo’s curse. They didn’t need to be on sky watch in case the archer decided to bodily hurl an organ out the window. Widowmaker, in bed beside her, seemed unphased by the loud chime. Maybe this happened every morning to add some mood to what Edgelord probably called his Den of Death. But Tracer, ever the inquisitive type, crept up out of the sheets, got dressed and padded out the room. 

The swift agent made it down three flights of stairs before she noticed a black door in one of the stairwells with DEATH TO ALL WHO ENTER written in fake bones on it. Needless to say a) the organ music was most definitely coming from down there and b) Tracer walked straight in. She was met with a gothic spiral staircase, lit with hellish illumination. As she followed it, the source turned out to be several emo message written in red neon, such as:  
DON’T GO ON  
TAKE HEED AND GO NO FURTHER  
BEWARE  
SOON IT WILL BE TOO LATE  
Which Tracer knew had all been directly copied from The Labyrinth script, but that seemed about right. 

The organ music became clearer, and then Tracer was met by a stairwell and a great big metal gate. Behind the bars stretched a cavernous room lit by candles whose wax dripped out of the eye sockets of their skull holders. At the central, huge, ebony-hewn table there sat Emo Lord himself behind the most dramatic sewing machine Tracer had ever seen in her life. The top bit had been made to look like a skeletal hand that held a spider, whose stinger was the needle, and the arm reached out of the base of the machine, which was a pile of bones. Every time Reyes put his foot down on the pedal, organ music spewed out from somewhere. What the bollocks? Since when had Reaper been Liberace Seamstress?  
“BOW T̡O̷ ͟͏YƠ̧U͜͡R͞͡ ͜͞M̴͢A̛S̵͟͡T͝ȨŖ͜,̸͜ ̴̕T͟͝RIP̧̢L͢E̢̢͝ ̧͡BL͢E̢N͠͝͡D̴̶ ̢͡P̨Ơ͘͝L͝Y̸̢E͟STĘR͘͠ ̵͘F͘I̛BR̢͏E.” Reyes cackled and put his foot down for a dramatic burst of organ music that echoed around his Sewing Dungeon. “Y̡̢O͝͞Ư ͏ḨA͏͜͜V̡͘E͟ ̸͠S͡Ę͜͜A͏̶M̛͢ ͢͟Y̶̢O͘͠UR ̶LAST͘ ̸͝D̸͜A͢Y̧Ş”  
Oh no. No. Not the goth sewing puns. They definitely didn’t get her in…stitches. Oh God. It was contagious. 

Now that Tracer looked a little closer at the room, the wall behind Reyes was covered in different articles of clothing sorted into theme, while in a cage at the side were stacks and stacks of fabric reels. Patterns hung from the ceiling and creepy mannequins were chained to the wall. Well, that was one way of storing your things, Tracer supposed.  
“Mon Cherie!” A harsh whisper came from behind the Overwatch agent and Widowmaker tugged on her arm. “We do not disturb Reyes while he sews!”  
“Why’s that love?” Tracer hissed back as they tiptoed up the stairs.  
“We do not speak of it, but there are still pins in the cafeteria door from two years ago.” The French assassin shuddered, and Tracer thought she saw a flicker of True Fear in her eyes. “Not to mention the sewing shears in the briefing room ceiling.”  
If Zenpai descending upon them in a whirlwind of pies with a still, silent, felt-tip smiley-face was the most terrifying thing Tracer had ever seen, the thought of Reaper streaking down a hallway with projectile pins and snapping sewing shears was a close second. Even more horrifying was that he’d probably growl ‘you have been pinned!’ with delight after every attack.  
“Yeah, right on, we should definitely leave him be.”

***

“Hanzo…” Lucio massaged his temples as he looked up from the gaming bean bag beside D.Va. It had been three days since the Pie War, and the archer still twanged with Taylor Swift wherever he went. That Hanzo hadn’t gone insane yet was probably down to Zenyatta being merciful with his tranquility several times a day, but that didn’t mean the rest of them would survive. If it had been semi-good music, maybe Lucio wouldn’t be at the brink of tears, but ancient country with haunted reverb was going to crack him. He’d already tried to drown it out with beats so loud they were classed as weapons, but Susy had near-shaken the training arena down in its vengeful spirit wrath. And Lucio did not want to explain to Dad that a music war between him and the ghost of McCree’s exploded heinous instrument had destroyed the training area. That was one report Winston did not need.

The older Shimada looked up from his chess game with Ana, who had promptly knitted herself a pair of earmuffs for the occasion.  
“Yes, Lucio?” Hanzo’s eye twitched just a little, which was fair. How the archer had restrained from dragoning McCree into a cowboy-shaped crater, Lucio had no idea. Little did he know, it was visions of naked serape strangulation.  
“Is there… _anything_ we can do to stop…Susy?” Lucio tried with a wince as the banjo seemed to sense he was about to insult it and began a vehement twang.  
“Under…interrogation during our fight with pies, the cowboy told me of a ritual to banish this infernal thing.” Hanzo glared at Susy which seemed to glare right back at him. He reached inside the folds of his cloth belt and proffered a list. “I have been trying to gather the ingredients, but McCree is being unhelpful as usual. Perhaps I should get the tiramisu spoons again.”  
Lucio didn’t want to imagine what Hanzo’s abilities with tiramisu spoons were, but took the list from the other man’s hand.

4 ounces of tumbleweed (crushed)  
Pinch of Cowboy Tobacco  
One ounce of gunpowder  
Four fingers of bootleg bourbon  
Tears of the curser  
Mournful Johnny Cash  
Morbid ambiance  
A priest

Underneath was a list of instructions. Lucio cocked an eyebrow then turned back to Hanzo.  
“You gotta make McCree cry?”  
“Hai. That is not the only thing I am having trouble with.” Hanzo frowned as Susy played a slightly more spiteful rendition of Love Story. Lucio was going to personally drop a very heavy, painful beat on anyone who played that to him ever again. “I stole one of his cigars and the gunpowder, and have been gathering the tumbleweed he conjures at High Noon. But I do not understand fingers and leg bourbon, and I believe Johnny Cash has been dead for centuries.”  
Johnny Cash was born dead, Lucio thought, then sighed. It was a choice between eternal, bad banjo music and having the shame of sourcing Johnny Cash on his name, but the latter seemed the less of two evils.  
“Look, I can get the Johnny Cash. We could probably raid Deadlock for some bourbon and Zenyatta is technically a kind of priest…” Lucio trailed off. “But getting McCree to cry? I dunno man.”  
“I could kick him in the – “  
“Pharah might know.” Ana spoke up from across the table, one earmuff off, and Lucio swore he saw Susy shiver a little at her glare. “They were close when they were younger and are still.”  
“I’m on it.” Lucio pulled out his comm device, as Pharah, Mercy, Dad, Junkrat, Roadhog, Zarya and Mei had forsaken the Banjo Hellpit to actually do something useful. Or so they’d said. He betted the load of them were just off on a peaceful beach somewhere drinking Pina Colada and scolding Dad for wearing socks with his jandals. Oh the good life.

Sk8erBoi: We need McCree to cry  
Near/Pharah/Wherever You Are: ??? A specific need or just for fun?  
Sk8erBoi: It will kill The Banjo.  
Near/Pharah/Wherever You Are: Say no more. Send him [this.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTxiWe5TU3I) Always does the trick.  
Lucio copied the link and turned to Hanzo. “Get ready.”  
“Wait!” Ana yelped and Hanzo froze, half turned toward the door. The sniper pointed at the clock, which, they both noticed, showed 11.55. “Perhaps wait another 10 minutes.”  
Ah. It was almost the Cowboy Hour. Even Lucio would rather endure off-key, haunted country twanging for a little longer than try and ambush McCree for tears at High Noon.

At exactly 12.05, everyone heard a loud sob, the whizz of rollerskates, and a _thud_ that might have been someone being suplexed or Reinhardt on the tail end of a charge. Then, right as Genji strolled past, Hanzo and Lucio pelted out of McCree’s room to the sound of rapid banjo noodling. His brother clutched a bleeding nose and the musician held up one of Hanzo’s teacups like a prized possession. Honestly, the most odd thing about it was that McCree had got a hit on his brother.  
“Is he dead?” Genji remarked with mild curiosity, but the pair just bounded around the corner as McCree lunged out of room, eyes puffy and Peacemaker brandished.  
“Varmint!” He yelled after them, but seemed to know better than to try and chase a man on rollerskates and Prosthetic Power Calves over there. Then McCree stalked back into his room and slammed what had once been a door and now was kind of a Hanzo-shaped hole, leaving Genji with no explanation of what in all hell had just happened.

McCree gave a huff, threw himself onto his hammock…and grinned. So this little pickle might have upsides. One of which…  
The cowboy blotted out trauma flashbacks to that godawful video (which he so was going to noogie Pharah for sharing, as she was the only one in the world who’d saved it for special occasions) and skipped to the part where Hanzo had, once again, karate kicked a hole in the new door (replayed by his memory in gratuitous slow-motion). The archer had proceeded to pounce on him, knock him to the ground with some fancy footwork, straddle him and pin him down with those big strong archer arms. All to the romantic serenade of a banjo. Oh goll-y, that was gonna slink into McCree’s dreams in the best kinda way. That little moment when Hanzo had him by the wrists and met his eyes, kinda just paused, soft mouth half-open for a second …And then Lucio had screamed in with a teacup, scooped a leftover tear off his face and pelted out with Hanzo on his heels. Those tricksy coyotes were out to goddarn exorcise his Susy, weren’t they? Ah well. He couldn’t go all a-wooin’ the archer if the man had gone batshit from non-stop banjo playing, now could he?  
“McCree?” Genji’s voice was followed by a timid tap on the shattered remains of his door. “I think the others are heading off to Deadlock HQ to try and steal some bourbon. You in?”  
Now that sounded like his kinda gig. “Only if I get a bottle or five!”  
If Jesse J McCree knew one thing, it was that his thirst for hot archers and bootleg whiskey outweighed his exploded banjo grudge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed the chapter! I'd love to hear what you thought of it, comments make my day ^.^  
> That video also made me tear up, so you're not alone McCree, you're not alone.  
> Today's country music songs go out to Reaper for [being emo in black](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGhZEmueVJ0), and because [old Mr Shadow](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CMpdhgKW8EM) is probably a great nickname for the man, if you can get past the yodeling. Anyway, thank you so much for reading (lol almost wrote reaping) and stay awesome (∿°○°)∿ ︵ ǝʌol
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	4. Roadtrips, Dragons and Torbjörn's Secrets

They crept out the watchpoint in dead silence, for fear of waking Ana, who would probably ground them all including Reinhardt. Well, as dead silent as Jingle-Jangle McCree, Mecha-Suit Stomp, and Earthshaker Grandad could manage. At least Lucio had left his music off, and Genji could be trusted not to make heinous amounts of noise. Susy had gone very quiet, and Hanzo didn’t trust a second of it. Maybe it was because even the warlock cowboy had decided to help exorcise it, but Hanzo suspected the venomous spirit was biding its time. Waiting. Knowingly putting the dragon on edge. Because that thing was pure evil. 

Hanzo was glad McCree had seen sense though. The man might be a banjo-playing fool, but his heart was in the right place and his ability to strangle foes while naked with a serape wasn’t something that could be simply overlooked. But Hanzo would think more on that when country music stalked him no more and when he had plenty of tissues around in case his nose decided everything was too much.  
“And where do you all think you’re going?” 

Even Hanzo jumped as Grandma of Death slipped out of the shadows. Genji looked at him. Hanzo looked at Lucio. Lucio looked at D.Va. D.Va looked at McCree. McCree looked at Reinhardt. Evening crickets chirped.  
“We are off to pillage Deadlock for bourbon to rid Hanzo of his curse, radiant Valkyrie!” Reinhardt clapped his breastplate with pride, so loud that 76 literally snorted awake from his afternoon nap in Reaper’s lap on the other side of the world, squinted for a second, then dozed off again. Back at the watchpoint, everyone gaped in both shock and horror at the knight. “Care to accompany me?”  
Everyone turned back to Ana like this was some kind of tennis match. Hanzo almost had to rub his eyes. Either Susy had gained new powers to make him hallucinate, or Ana had the faintest touch of a blush.  
“Sounds like fun. I’m in.”  
“See, Grandad and Grandma are cool.” D.Va huffed. “Dad wouldn’t have let us.”

Hanzo sincerely hoped that nobody let their commander know that while he’d gone out, the rest of them had thrown a ‘pillage Deadlock for Bourbon’ party, as Reinhardt had put it.  
“Yes, not a word of this to Jack.” Ana held up a finger. “What is your plan?”  
“We were gonna steal Dad’s minivan.” D.Va put in. “Y’know, the one we go for picnics with.”  
“And I know that place perty well, so it shouldn’t kick up much of a hullabaloo.” McCree lit up a cigar and Hanzo swore the cowboy just made up words. Seriously, hullabaloo sounded like some strange circus act or another heinous cowboy instrument, and Hanzo didn’t need either of those in his life. But the sniper nodded.  
“Alright then. Reinhardt, lead on.” Ana’s voice was warm, and the knight practically glowed. Hanzo still remembered when Ana had returned; the giant man had tackle-hugged her so hard, they’d both flown through a window and had to spend the next week in the Medbay. But the archer had never seen a man so happy about a broken arm and three ribs before, or Ana more forgiving over a fractured wrist.

So McCree hotwired the commander’s stealth minivan (disguised as ‘AboveSight’s Hostel For The Special’ transport) and careened out of there like Junkrat’s Tyre of Destruction was after them. Hanzo was fairly sure that the cowboy had never learned to drive like he wasn’t stealing something from a bank, and had a feeling he’d been allowed to have the front seat because nobody else wanted to see how many streetlamps they almost crashed into.  
“Lucio! Git on some Bon Jovi!” The madman at the wheel whooped and looked over his shoulder at the mostly petrified faces in the backseats. Only Reinhardt and Ana looked like this was the most fun they’d had since the Rollercoaster Battle last year.  
“Cowboy! The road!” Hanzo reached over and yanked the wheel as they almost annihilated a letterbox. “Where did you get your license?”  
“License? Ain’t got one o’ them ‘less it’s a license to kill!” The cowboy hollered and screeched around the corner, then screamed straight through a red light. Hanzo felt his soul pack its bags and get ready to leave his body.  
“Please don’t kill us, Uncle McCree.” D.Va, tiny child that she was with her mech packed in the boot looked out the window and probably saw her life flash before her eyes. There was a difference between being a skilled driver of a high-tech, battle-hardy mech and being thrown around corners by a lunatic so hard one whole side of the hovercar came off the ground .  
“Ah, learn to live a little!” McCree grinned in an insane but very…problematic way and Lucio just began to pulse out ancient guitar riffs, perhaps in the hope it would calm the man.

“C’mon sing it now!” McCree closed his eyes and threw back his head as they pelted down the dark desert road. Good thing with deserts was that they had no letter boxes to kill. The situation had gone from everyone grudgingly settling for what the driver wanted for music to the whole car, even Hanzo, singing along to the surprisingly catchy phrases of Bon Jovi. It was an odd blend of Reinhardt’s boom, D.Va’s high little voice, Lucio’s trained vocals, Genji’s synthesized twist and Ana, who was just as much into it as McCree. Even Susy took a break from Taylor Swift to join the party.  
_“Cause I’m a cowboy! On a steel horse I ride, and I’m wanted – “_  
“Wanted!” McCree howled and flashed Hanzo such a wicked grin that the archer had to check his nose for damage.  
_“Dead or aliiiiive!”_  
“Yehaw!” McCree hooted over the final guitar notes as D.Va popped a gum bubble with possible glee in the background.  
“We should go on more roadtrips!” The gamer seemed to have acclimatized to McCree’s insane and illegal driving, which despite its perils, had got them further faster.  
“I know a perfect beach!” Reinhardt didn’t seem at all phased by the fact he had to hunch his neck over to fit under the roof.  
“As long as you spare us all from your tiny red Hasselhoff speedo, Reinhardt.” Genji said with reasonable anguish in his voice. 

Last time they’d gone to the beach, they had not been spared. Morrison had simply ripped off his visor for the sweet relief of blindness, Pharah had promptly covered D.Va’s eyes and Tracer had just run. That had also been the beach event where Hanzo had complimented McCree’s cowboy boot jandals in earshot of Genji, who’d promptly screamed ‘dishonour’ and come at the apparently offensive shoes with a samurai sword. Fun times.  
“Genji, you know robots and cyborgs are meant to wear clothes, right?” Lucio cocked an eyebrow and the whole car suddenly went quiet, with only Bon Jovi to break the sudden awkwardness.  
“…yes.”  
“Genji!” Hanzo yelped, almost spun around, but thought better of it. How had he not noticed that before?? “You mean to say that all this time you’ve been running around naked?”  
“...yes?” His _birthday suit brother_ shrugged. “It’s not like you can see anything. In fact it’s kind of freeing.”  
“I can never look at you again.” Hanzo put a hand over his face. “Dishonour. Dishonour on you and everything you own.”

He was so distracted by this new, horrific revelation that the archer didn’t notice chucklefuck McCree’s driving had become something more worthy of a minivan.  
“Alright pard’ners, the back entrance is just around that there rocky outcrop.” McCree doused the lights on the hover vehicle and Lucio killed the music. Hanzo internalized his emotions like usual and tried to purge his mind of his brother’s unashamed nakedness. Between Genji and Susy, he could feel the last dregs of his sanity drain out of the tea strainer of his mind.

  
To Hanzo’s surprise, they managed to sneak into the base with only a few small murders to get the gate open. The archer put it down to the fact that everyone in Deadlock seemed to jingle jangle – be it with chains or spurs, and so didn’t notice the clamour that was McCree. Reinhardt had worn his most punk suit under the cowboy’s instruction that they’d probably mistake him for a small vehicle if he crawled. So the knight pretended to be a car and everyone else kind of crouched behind his flank, out of sight. Be it a testament to Reinhardt’s avid participation children’s games that gave him acting skill or the Deadlock gangsters’ dull wits, but McCree’s crazy plan actually worked.  
“Where to now?” D.Va hissed, huddled between him and Lucio because it was a scary world outside her too-obvious mech. It was on call, but that was their escape plan. Well, Hanzo thought it was. Wait, did they even have an escape plan? The archer slid past Lucio to get to McCree as they made it into an empty warehouse.  
“McCree, what – “  
_TWANG-DING-DANG-DING-DIDDLY-DANG –_  
Oh that banjo bastard.  
“I’d recognize that anywhere!” Some grunt out in the courtyard yelled. “McCree’s here, y’all!”  
So McCree had tortured these people with his evil ways too. They weren’t the first victims.  
“Hanzo, you n’ me are the distraction. Everyone else git to the bourbon, hallway straight ahead third right, straight then second left, fourth door down!” McCree listed off, because if there was anywhere he knew in the Deadlock base, it was where they kept their homebrew. “They’ll be gunnin’ for me, not y’all, so git!”

Hanzo averted his eyes from his brother’s naked robot ass as the others pelted off and Susy shook the roof with its wrath.  
“Can’t you stop it?!” He yelled over the deafening, haunted twang.  
“Outta my hands now pard’ner!” McCree shrugged as they ran toward a stack of crates behind which to think up a better plan than ‘die to bad Taylor Swift’.  
“If I die, I am coming back to scream ‘Fool’ at you every single hour of the day.” Hanzo spotted a vent in the wall and in his frustration, just yanked the grate off. He looked up to see hatass glance between the grate and his arms with a kind of awe, but had no time to feel smug. “In!”  
Like the tumbleweed he loved so much, the cowboy rolled into space, Hanzo hot on his head over heels. Just as the first grunt ran into the place, he pulled the grate closed again.

They crawled for a minute – long enough for Hanzo to get a good look at the cowboy’s rear, but not long enough to start an in-depth fantasy concerning that serape – when the vent hit a choice: go into the open again or go up. Or the current choice for Hanzo was ‘climb on top of McCree’ either way. And he didn’t want another nosebleed.  
“McCree – “  
“Listen!” A Deadlock gangster was much closer to the vent than either man had anticipated, and they both froze. “He’s…he’s in the walls Bob Jerky!”  
McCree and Hanzo both tensed with fear – it was true, Susy had followed them.  
“Rancho Joe, what if he’s dead? What if he’s come t’ haunt us?” Bob Jerky whimpered. “What if he an’ his godawful banjo playin’ never leaves us in peace?”  
“The _hell_ did you just say?” McCree yelled and Hanzo, for the second time today, readied his soul for Death. Things went a little differently than the archer expected though. Rancho Joe screamed high and shrill like Reaper with an ice-cream cake shoved down his shirt and fled. Bob Jerky just hit the ground like a sack of rice.  
“Get out, fool!” Hanzo was oh so tempted to slap the man’s ass in an attempt to hurry him on.  
_Slap his ass_ Hige whispered from his shoulder.  
_Yes, slap his ass_ Hotaru agreed from his wrist. _I like his ass_  
_We should touch it_ Hige tugged on his arm  
Even his dragons were thirsty for McCree’s ass. The cowboy paused, metal hand on the grate.  
“D’you hear hissing?”  
Hanzo snapped his fingers back as Nice Ass McCowboyface twisted around. Control the dragon. Remember your training. Touch not the ass.  
“Cause I gotta say I hate snakes, ever since one bit me on the – “  
“Just get the grate open!” Hanzo’s Nose O’ Meter climbed dangerously high as McCree turned back. “I’m going to head up and above. Try not to get killed.”

 

McCree wiggled out of the little space and listened to the cute little pitter-patter of Hanzo’s feetsies as he bounded up the vent. ‘Try not to get killed’ was the nicest thing Hanzo had said to him all week. Susy petered off for a moment, as if a little confused who it wanted to follow.  
“He’s in here!” Rancho Joe’s voice quavered as he led more gangsters in. Godangnamittahell. McCree did a quick roll away from Bob Jerky’s body and behind a crate of ammunition, a shadow of serape and Stetson.  
“Did y’all see that!” Rancho Joe’s voice hit another octave. “It’s him I tell you! Killed, I’d say, before his weddin’, come to haunt us because we turned him astray in his youth! Come to wreak his plague of banjo revenge!”  
What in all hell had Rancho Joe been smokin’ today?  
“Let’s see if this ghost o’ yours is bulletproof.”  
Oh con sarn it. McCree knew that voice. The voice of the Deadlock leader, Pint-Size Pain. This might be a little more of a pickle than he’d first supposed. There was the crack of a gun, but even Pain wouldn’t be nine kinds of enough crazy to shoot at a munitions crate. All of a sudden, Susy picked up, loud and clear from the roof.  
“You gone done angered him! Angered the spirit!” Rancho Joe’s prophetic howls of a grim, banjo-filled McCree death echoed off into the distance as the man ran. Ahh, the smell of a yellow belly in the night time. Almost better than beef jerky. On that note, he was almost running outta that. They could probably stop at the store on the way home –  
_Ka-ding!_

A bullet pinged into Hanzo’s vent, but there was no cry of pain. Thank goodness. He did not want an angry Japanese ghost-man screaming ‘fool’ at him for the rest of his life. It’d ruin all his high noons! So McCree thought up his best Reaper impression.  
“I’m here for your soul, Pint-Size Pain!” McCree wailed from the munition crate.  
“With a banjo?” The leader gave a gruff laugh, but seemed unsure whether to fire at the spooky Taylor Swift where Hanzo must be in the far wall, or McCree’s voice. “Spread out and look for ‘im.”  
“Death walks among youuuu!” McCree moaned, unhitched his spurs and tossed them in one direction, then crept back toward where his vent was. The other gangsters headed off toward his jingly jangle.  
“Pain, we found his spurs!” The grunt’s voice quavered.  
“Bring ‘em to me!” Pint Size Pain was in his line of vision now. If the others joined him…  
“What if they’re cursed!”  
“I ain’t touchin’ em.”  
“Neither!”  
“Just – “ Pain broke off as a silhouette crossed the door on the other side of the room to McCree. A very Hanzo-shaped silhouette. McCree recognized it from his door-hole. Except this one also came accessorized with a banjo . “So this is the apparition, huh? Your legs sure got skinny in death. An’ what. Someone steal your precious hat?”  
Come on Hanzo, start the shootin’ already!  
“Torbjörn?” Hanzo’s confused voice reminded him that maybe he should have told the archer that one little detail.  
“You _DARE!”_ The dwarf’s twin roared. “Torbjörn?! I ain’t that soft-centred, layabout, turret-building _skitstövel!_ ”

Pint-Size Pain’s put-on American accent drained back into Swedish with his fury. McCree still remembered his introduction to Pain’s brother at Overwatch. The cowboy had walked in, all smiles and butter, when he’d spotted the double agent, Pint-Size Pain in disguise out to infiltrate Overwatch. He’d practically screamed DRAW, but before you could doodle a smiley face on a pie tin, Winston had slam-dunked him into his exercise tyre. There, McCree had been notified that Torbjörn was one of quintuplets, two of whom were pirates, and one of whom was Pint-Sized Pain. Put that under ‘things he should have been told from the start’ but there he’d gone done the same to Hanzo.  
“We have secured the objective!” Ana’s voice came over their coms. Whelp, it was about time they cut and run.  
“Too bad.” Hanzo answered Pain and shrugged. Before the dwarf could say ‘don’t you sound a little too Japanese’, he was overridden by angry Asian yelling and two, giant fuck-off dragons to the face. 

The cowboy dodged out the way, but the big creatures actually turned on him as they left the gangsters to enjoy their synchronized face-plants.  
“Uuh, Hanzo…?” McCree backed up but the dragons kept coming.  
_GRARRR!_ One of the snaky bastards reached forward with one of them weird whisker-feeler things and gently, ever so gently, booped him on the nose.  
“Hey!” Hanzo growled and clapped twice, before the other dragon could do whatever it had gone behind him to do. “iie!”  
_GRAWWW…_ The pair slunk away and wound themselves back around the archer’s arm, who glared until they were only tattoos again.  
“Apologies.”  
Was all the explanation McCree got as to why a dragon had goddarn booped him, and then he remembered old man Morrison was back tomorrow morning, and if they didn’t make it home in time, he’d have to explain why they’d stolen his mini-van, done an unauthorized raid on Deadlock ,and brought home a stash of bootleg bourbon, probably with some speeding tickets to boot. Dragon-booping explanations could wait. Time to skidaddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to credit Overwatch Emergency Communication Channel for the horror of Reinhardt's red speedo.  
> Today's country music is dedicated to [creepin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8OZhw-aQTP8), because they get their stealth on. :D  
> Also, that's my explanation for Torbjorn's Deadlock skin...I still don't know why McCree doesn't have one ¯\\(ツ)/¯  
> But as always, I would love to hear what you thought of the chapter! I hope you're all enjoying this crazy thing n.n A comment would make my day! Stay awesome buddies ヽ(๑◠ܫ◠๑)ﾉ
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	5. Exorcizamus te Bænjo

The Time had come. And by The Time, McCree regrettably did not mean High Noon. Lucio forbad anyone to speak of it, but he’d downloaded some Johnny Cash for the occasion (although McCree didn’t know why he was so upset). Reaper had arrived in exactly 1.2 seconds when they coerced Morrison into telling him they needed a morbid ambiance, and had turned the Rec Room into The Exorcism Cavern. How he’d got authentic stalactites and affixed them to the ceiling, McCree wasn’t sure, but it would definitely work for the ritual. Emo Dad had barely needed instruction in chalking a Cowboy Pentagram on the back of one of his spare serapes either. Just like old times. To be honest, McCree figured the only reason why Emo Dad hadn’t come back to join Overwatch was because he couldn’t be DramaticBadGuy.png on the good side. It was a shame, because damn did he miss Reaper’s cookin’ – well, McCree did have his ol’ beef jerky, but it wasn’t quite the same. Though on the bright side, the man must be in heaven, what with it being Halloween 24/7 for him, and if Reyes was happy McCree couldn’t complain.

“Ready?” The cowboy looked across at Zenyatta, who had the exorcism Hanzo had gotten out of him with tiramisu spoons and custard. That had either been the most sexy or terrifying moment of his life; he still wasn’t sure. McCree hadn’t known tiramisu spoons could even be that flexible.  
“I think I have it down.” The monk sounded a little out of his depth here, but either had been too polite to refuse or wanted Susy gone as much as the others.  
“Right-o. Lucio, hit it.” McCree nodded over at the musician. Lucio made a pained expression, and then the classic voice of Johnny Cash rolled a soulful tune out of the amps that Emo Dad had somehow made glow red. Everything was in place. Mcree turned over his shoulder and yelled to the Shimada brothers in the hallway. “Bring him in!”

There was the haunted creak of the oak door that had been installed, and Genji led a blindfolded, earmuffed Hanzo into the room. Even though Susy floated along behind them, what Hanzo couldn’t see and hear, it couldn’t either.  
“Jack? Is that you?” Reaper mocked the sightless archer from the corner where he’d done Zenyatta proud and become One with the Exorcism Cave, then laughed at his terrible dad joke.  
“Get him in the middle.” McCree poured out exactly four fingers of the filched Deadlock bootleg with ease of practise, mixed it with his tears and set it aside for a moment. “Now Genji, you git on out the chalk and give Hanzo his eyes an’ ears again.”

As soon as the blindfold and earmuffs were gone, Susy began to twang like it wanted to drown out Johnny Cash. It was a battle between his banjo and the king of country, and McCree almost wept a tear of joy to hear it with his own two ears. But Susy had no power outside the chalk, so it couldn’t bring the stalactites down.  
“Zenny! Git goin’!” McCree stood with the concoction of Hanzo’s stolen tumbleweed, tobacco and gunpowder. Luckily, Emo Dad had put his candles inside the skulls today, so there wouldn’t be any unplanned explosions as the cowboy tossed pinches of the mixture over the archer.  
McCree then picked up the whiskey for the monk to bless. “Down the hatch now Hanzo, all in one go.”

The archer eyed the glass with apprehension, which was fair. If McCree knew Deadlock moonshine, well, you’d put down three and wake up with no pants and your head in an empty KFC chicken bucket, while IKEA staff poked you with an artistic lamp to made sure you were still alive. Hell, that had been the weirdest walk of shame McCree had ever done in his life.  
But Hanzo seemed to feel that a potential whiskey coma trumped eternal ghost banjo buddy, so took the glass and tossed it back like a true alcoholic. Susy’s strumming got faster and faster, angrier and angrier as Zenyatta neared the end of the exorcism. Its strings caught fire and then, with a final Taylor Swift _twang_ the banjo burst into flames and left them with nothing but sweet, sweet Johnny Cash. McCree swept off his hat in respect for the fallen country instrument.

“That was _SO COOL!_ ” Emo Dad did an excited jump on the spot, then seemed to remember he was Edgelord Extreme and regained his composure. “…I mean T̸̵͡H͢E ͠S̶̛O̶͞U͞LŚ̵̢ ̧̛͞O̶̸F͝ T̨͘̕HE ̸̵͜D̸Á̀M̶͟͟N̷̛ÉD̛̕ ͘͢F́́̕L̛̛͞E͏È͢ ̡͘͝B͝͠Ę̛͞F̡Ó͟R͢E̴͘͜ U̡S̴͟͢.”  
“Yeah, yeah.” Lucio sighed, then turned to McCree. “Can I turn this off now?”  
“If you must?” Why anyone would want to turn off Johnny Cash was beyond the cowboy.  
“Oh, I must.” Lucio rolled his eyes and they were left in the silence of Emo Dad’s mood lighting.  
_Hic!_  
Hanzo looked a little shocked at himself but his eyes went kinda crossed.  
“You’re kidding me.” Genji uncrossed his arms and stood from where he’d been leaning on an aesthetic gargoyle. “He can’t be drunk, all he _drinks_ is sake!”  
“Silence, you naked piece of dishonour!” Hanzo slapped the serape with a poof of chalk, and McCree couldn’t hide a snigger.  
“Just because yer used to a kick don’t mean yer used to a punch.” McCree chuckled and Hanzo turned to him with incredulous eyes.  
“What does that even _mean_ cowman?! Because I try to speak English, then you come along with your ‘don’ts’ in the wrong place and ‘ain’ts’ and, and _hullaballoo_. What is that? What _is_ it?” Hanzo rolled onto his side like he’d given up on life and muttered something in Japanese, which made Genji laugh so hard he slid down the gargoyle.  
“This is nice.” Hanzo closed his eyes and patted the serape. “Can the dragon have it?”  
“Yeah ‘the dragon’ can have it.” McCree grinned as the tipsy archer got more regal with each sentence. “What say we roll you up an’ get you some bread to munch on?”  
“Rice. Bread is for barbarians.” Hanzo replied still with his eyes closed.

And that’s how Hanzo woke up; half burritoed inside McCree’s black serape, face stuck in a cold bowl of rice, covered in chalk. On second thoughts, it might not have been the best idea to down an entire bottle of sake for courage before the exorcism. He hadn’t known McCree would make him _drink_ that paintstripper. The archer slumped back into the rice with a sigh and rejoiced in the blessed banjo-free silence. At least he hadn’t made out with McCree in front of everyone.  
_We should totally make out with McCree_ Hotaru rose from the tattoo and booped his jaw with its little snout.  
“Dishonour.” Was all Hanzo had the energy to say.  
_You’re the one with your face in a bowl of rice_ Hige chimed in and Hanzo just groaned into said rice.  
“Why did they leave me like this?” He picked at the warm serape; McCree had left both his arms and his left boob out, but covered the rest. The cowboy knew him well.  
_You started demanding that they address you with Royal Japanese Honorifics or not speak to you at all_ Hotaru supplied with a ticklish flicker of its face-feelers.  
Hige made a small trill that Hanzo had long before recognized as a laugh. _And you pelted Genji with whatever clothing you could reach from the serape_  
_Mmm, serape_ Hotaru hummed. _I like serape_  
_McCree thought you looked too happy to wake up_ Hige’s mystical dragon voice sounded far too smug. _He liiiiiiiiikes you_  
_Yeah_ Hotaru flickered out its forked tongue to poke him. _He liiiiiiikes you. He’d probably touch your butt if you touched his butt_  
“Leave me alone.” Hanzo moaned, then pulled himself together and sat up with half his face covered in rice.  
_Touch his butt, touch his butt!_ The dragons chanted as they retreated back into his skin. The Shimada Elders had never told him he’d have to deal with this when he’d taken the pair of weirdos on. 

Hmm. It was 2am. Which meant he’d only slept two hours, because apparently all the powerful cowboy magic had to be performed around the number 12.  
The archer grudgingly wriggled free of the chalk-covered serape, stretched, and clambered up to go raid some water from the kitchen. Halfway down the stairs, Hanzo heard the haunted creak of a door and then –  
“WHAT THE FUCK?!” D.Va’s shrill shout probably broke a window somewhere. “WHO TURNED THE GAMING ROOM INTO A CAVE??”  
The small Korean stalked out. Had Reaper just left it like that? Probably, knowing him and his mission to turn the world into an Evanescence album cover.  
“Why do you want to play games at 2am?” Hanzo got to the bottom of the stairs and shot D.Va a confused, bleary look.  
“Why do you have rice stuck to your face?” D.Va got smarmy and crossed her arms, but Hanzo would rather have another shot of McCree’s Death Bourbon than tell her he’d got drunk and passed out in Genji’s cooking.  
“An ancient Japanese skin ritual.” He grumbled. Weird dragons were not the only perk of being mystical and Japanese.  
“Well, I have noobs to wreck in their own timezone.” D.Va huffed. “Now I’ll have to do it in my room, and there’s no snack machine in there. The big screen better be there when it gets back to normal or else.”

Little did either party know that Reaper had taken the re-decorating opportunity to steal their whole-wall panel so he could watch Spanish soap operas in surround sound HD. To him, it seemed like a very fair trade.  
“Tragic.” Hanzo yawned, slightly surprised that someone actually used the snack machine. Well, except for whoever it was that emptied the shelf of beef jerky.  
“Have fun with your _skin ritual_.” D.Va smirked, then headed on past him up the stairs. Hanzo was too sleepy to think up a retort, so just headed on down to the kitchen. The light was already on, so Hanzo picked the last grains of rice off his face and snuck toward the door.

“ – he’s, what, in his thirties and doesn’t have his own towel?” Morrison’s voice came from inside, with the chink of a mug on the counter. Hanzo could smell camomile from here.  
“That’s what I’m telling you!” Ana’s concerned tone hissed. “He uses that dog-eared serape, which probably gets him dirtier than when he went in the shower.”  
The words ‘dirty’, ‘shower’ and ‘serape’ went straight to Hanzo’s head, and in a strange kind of golden haze he saw McCree saunter across the bathroom toward him, serape slung across his hips, with that cocky smile as he snapped the neck of some vague villain in an offhand, flirtatious kind of way. The victim would fall to the ground in front of them, and McCree would just tip that cowboy hat that had appeared from somewhere and say… _Howdy._  
Shit.

Hanzo pushed into the kitchen and went straight for the paper towels.  
“Evening Hanzo.” Morrison nodded at him, in a camouflage onesie that Reaper had made for him as a joke, but 76 had never stopped wearing to bed since. He’d even worn it on the battlefield a few times, with the bunny slippers wearing visors that matched the soldier’s. Hanzo was sure that Reaper kept making these things in the hope that one day he’d find something that the commander couldn’t bring himself to wear, but Morrison just made a point to sport them all the time to either piss off Reaper or because he actually just really liked them. “Another nosebleed? Isn’t that the third this week?”  
Hanzo just glared, but lucky for him, these little nose outbursts didn’t seem to last long.  
“How was the banjo exorcism?” Ana glanced around, but Hanzo just nodded. Only on his path of life was it normal for an elderly sniper to ask him at 2am how a banjo exorcism had gone while he had a nosebleed over a stupid sorcerer cowboy as their commander drank tea in camouflage onesie.  
“Id went very well. De infernal thing is gone.” He poured himself the biggest glass of water he could find, and tossed his tissues in the trash.  
“Thank the corn fields for that.” Morrison sighed and poured another mug of camomile. “Take that with you, son. You look like you could do with a good sleep.”  
Hanzo probably needed all the water he could get, and he hadn’t had camomile in far too long.  
“Thank you, Morrison.” The archer gave a little bow and took the mug in the other hand.

Ana and #1 Dad watched the somewhat on-edge, chalk-smeared, blood-stained archer with rice in his hair disappear out the door to the sound of something hissing ‘touch the butt, touch the butt’.  
“Troubled.” Morrison concluded and sat down on one of the island stools. Ana took a sip of tea.  
“At least he has his own towel.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP Susy. Sleep well, sweet princess.  
> There's probably a more mournful Johnny Cash than [today's country music song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OD-oNdv0fO4), but I like this one, so there ya go. I'll also throw in [The Burnin'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X3KCrL6psCc) in memory of Susy's fiery ghost death.  
> I'm so happy I got to write Hanzo the regal drunk because he so would be.  
> Hope the chapter made y'all laugh, and I would love to hear what you thought of it! So leave a comment if you like, and stay fantastic my buddies ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	6. Bed, Bath & Revenge

This was stupid. Unreasonable. Goddarn uncalled for. McCree glowered around Bed Bath and Beyond like their CEO had personally taken his arm. Well, they might have. McCree had woken up one morning and it had just gone. Who did it? He didn’t know. But one day they’d be reunited, and whoever was walking around with his goddamn arm was gonna find out what the other one could do. Unless it had already strangled ‘em in their sleep and then crawled off to where it could sense a bar brawl brewing; he wouldn’t put it past Lefty. That arm had always been a bastard. Maybe it had just ripped itself off to go find more action. In fact, he’d been a little relieved to wake up and find he no longer had to put up with its shit.

But back to the present. _Apparently_ a serape wasn’t a good enough towel. Soldier Dad had actually called an Overwatch meeting to discuss the apparent ‘eyesight hazard’. They’d had an anonymous vote labelled ‘Get A Towel’ vs ‘Leave the Serape’ in which everybody but one person had voted to get a towel. McCree had no idea who that blessed soul was among the crew, but if he found out, he’d buy them a drink next time outta the watchpoint. Zenyatta had just about bounced up and down with excitement to take him to Bed, Bath  & Beyond, and when McCree had opened his mouth to protest, Genji had just stared at him with his cold, dead robot eyes and drew a finger across his throat. McCree could now see why – it was like a kid at a candy shop. The monk was currently beside the colour-coded face-towels, his spheres draped with a pattern of bright colours. The cowboy found it a little odd, because Zenyatta neither could or would buy material possessions. He just liked to pick them up, it seemed, and have a go with them.  
“ – well Dylan dear, we can’t just have a coffee grinder, it has to be an _organic_ coffee grinder!”  
McCree froze.  
“Three speed or five speed Sharon, dearest?”  
“Well Janine has a five speed, so we’d never hear the last of it if we only had _three!_ ”

No. Oh dear lord in the merciful heaven no. McCree didn’t care if Soldier Dad towel-whipped his ass ten times outta town for not completing this ridiculous mission, he was runnin’. The cowboy got exactly three steps before one of Zenyatta’s draped balls zoomed under his feet and knocked him on his face with a jingle-jangle Santa would have been proud of.  
He was trippin’ balls. Darn it, Emo Dad and his puns had got to him.  
“Morrison told me you might try to run.” Zenyatta offered in a kind of apologetic way, but he didn’t know the True Horror that was one aisle across.  
“Zenny, you don’t understand…” McCree tried to crawl away, but the monk readied another tea-towelled ball.  
“I understand you love your serape very much. But I don’t believe its prime directive is to be a – “  
_“Jesse???”_  
Oh damn Satan’s hickory stump.

“Zenny, have pity and just kill me.” McCree moaned into the linoleum of Bed, Bath & Beyond like an actor in one of Emo Dad’s Spanish soap operas, and the monk turned to look at… _her._  
“You know McCree?” Zenyatta cocked his head, something he’d picked up from Genji.  
“Of course I’d know my little boy! Especially when he’s wearing the same outfit he ran away from home in at ten years old!” Sharon McCree, the woman he’d once called Ma scolded. Aw gawd. She looked worse than ever with dyed brown hair, a fake blonde fringe and giant brown glasses that screamed ‘Can I speak to the Manager’. “And look at you! You’ve become a stripper. Didn’t I tell you Dylan, didn’t I say letting him go on the internet was a bad idea? He went and watched all those cowboy movies and now look at him.”  
“I ain’t a stri – “  
“Jesse?” Dylan put down the organic coffee grinder and frowned at the spread-eagled cowboy weaboo. Still in that horrid yellow and putrid green chequered vest then. McCree was no Reaper, but even he wanted to burn the thing for the sake of fashion. “Did you just get a bigger strap for that buckle? C’mon boy, we’re at the mall now, I’ll get you some good old plaid.”  
No. _No._ Not the trouser plaid. It was almost as bad as the reason that he’d run away from home at the age of ten. So McCree did the only thing he could think of; hurled an abstract waffle iron at Zenyatta, and while the monk was momentarily bewildered by the item, smashed straight through the window, fell two stories into a kids’ mall bouncy castle and hightailed it back to Soldier Dad’s minivan.

Zenyatta took in the damage McCree had done to his beloved Bed, Bath & Beyond and turned to McCree’s parents as a spur-punctured bouncy castle wheezed in the background.  
“Would you like to come back home with us for tea?”

***

Hanzo was Worried. In fact everyone was Worried. McCree had pelted through the watchpoint and slammed his bedroom door, which he hadn’t so much as fixed, simply filled the Hanzo-hole with foam. Nobody even got time to see if he’d got a new towel or not. At first they’d been terrified that he’d released another vengeful banjo, or worse, an accordion, but that didn’t seem to be that case. Outside the cowboy’s walls Hanzo could hear the man’s worried mutter.  
“They’ll take me back, they’ll take me back and make me into that _thing!_ I can’t do it, I can’t, they can’t make me – “  
“McCree?” Hanzo ignored the man’s small scream of surprise and tapped on the door again. Morrison had held an emergency meeting with the others to discuss whether he’d driven the cowboy insane by trying to deprive him of his serape, but Hanzo had climbed out the window before his imagination got too graphic.  
“Hanzo, you gotta hide me!” McCree ripped the door open and glanced left, then right. “They’re comin’. I can feel it.”  
“Who – “  
“Zenyatta!” Came Ana’s voice from downstairs. “And who are these two?”

McCree’s eyes went wide, and then the archer found the door slammed in his face. Nobody scared his cowboy like this. Nobody, unless he’d unleashed a possessed banjo on their soul. So Hanzo unhitched his bow and marched down the stairs to see Zenyatta with the most suburban white people he’d ever seen in his life. But the dragon knew that enemies came in all guises.  
“Who are you!” He growled and notched an arrow. Whatever these people had done to McCree, whatever had made him so scared, they were going to _pay_.  
“Oh, uhh, arigato, uh, senpai.” The man in a vest too horrendous to comment on bowed and Hanzo just about shot him for his heinous misuse of the Japanese language.  
“Hey, bow down indoors Hanz- huuuuuuuurrr!” Morrison.exe stopped working with a gasp as he suddenly noticed the pair. “Dylan Dibley. _Dylan Dibley is that you??”_  
Everyone looked between Morrison and the horrific shirt man with confusion, except McCree, who’d probably buried himself in tumbleweed by now.  
“The _master golf instructor!_ ” If Morrison had had eyes, there would have been awe in them right now. Hanzo thought he saw the soldier’s knees tremble a little. “Sir, I’ve studied your work, I’ve seen all your tournaments…”  
“Never mind that!” Hanzo snapped and glared down his stabilizer. “What have you done to McCree.”  
“We’re his parents. He ran away from home because he didn’t want to be a golf instructor like his dad.” The woman crossed her arm with a snide expression, and Hanzo was so shocked, he let go of the bowstring. Before Morrison could leap in front of his true love, Genji got there first and deflected it into the ceiling.

“W _h_ A **t**.” Everyone in the room said with about seven different degrees of inflection, except for Zenyatta, who seemed oddly at peace with the situation.  
“But…he’s McCree. And you’re Dibley?” Ana glanced at Morrison, who seemed to have frozen in horror that there was another Dad to contend with. Fuckshirt Dylan put an arm around his wife with a bland smile. Had it been some clever ruse to throw McCree’s enemies off and avoid being captured and ransomed for the cowboy?  
“We wanted a bit more of a normal name, you know. McCree was far too absurd.”  
Reinhardt, Junkrat and Ana exploded into laughter. Hanzo noticed he still had his empty bow up and mouth open, so tried to remedy both. Lucio also had his mouth open, and Bastion had curled up into Box Form as a coping mechanism. McCree’s father. Was a _golf instructor_. Wait a second.  
“You. What do you do.” He glared at McCree’s…mother? This was weird. He’d go far enough to say this was even dishonourable on McCree’s good cowboy name.  
“Me? Well I’m an accountant.” She sniffed and eyed their wallpaper, which Junkrat had exploded coffee over not two nights before while trying to get his coffee bombs into Roadhog’s mouth, with disdain.  
In all fairness, Hanzo could see why McCree had run away from home.

“Now that we’ve found him, we’d like to take him back in, y’know. Save him from his current…work situation and relieve AboveSight’s Home For The Special of him.” Mr Dibley nodded, having read the van, and gestured at Junkrat as an example of ‘special’. The man had laughed so hard he’d fallen on the tyre on his back and now flailed like an overturned beetle for help. Morrison choked. Hard-out choked until Reinhardt smacked his back so hard he recovered but probably also spat a lung into the next room. As the choking happened, Ana slipped out for a moment.  
“No! I mean, your golfing honour, McCree’s my boy now!” No matter how much the commander denied it, when his dad duty was challenged, out shone his true colours.  
“Don’t you mean Reyes’ boy?” Ana raised an eyebrow as she returned and also a com. “I called him to help sort this mess out.”  
_“You did wh – “_  
“ T̨̧Ḩ͝E̕ ̢͢͠D̴̶A̛RḰ͘͢ ͢͠F̡̕A̷T̕H͏E͝R̶͞ ͟H̢A̧͡S C̶̵O͢͟ME̸͞ “ Reaper appeared in their lounge in a swirl of smoke, and Hanzo heard Lucio mutter ‘thank goodness he didn’t say dark daddy’.  
“Demon!” Mrs Dibley suddenly screeched and smacked Reaper upside the head with a bible from her purse. “Back to hell with you!”  
Honestly it was about time someone did that, Hanzo thought. 

Reaper hissed and raised his cloak like a dramatic vampire, then went full wraith form to stop the Bible Bludgeoning. "B̴E͜͞͏G̡͡͏O̢NÈ ̷͡ÌM͞P͟Ơ̧͘S̷͠TE͏͜R͟!̕ ͏͡M͠͝C̴CR͘E̷͠E Í͜͝S̴ ̡̛M̨I̷̶̕N̡͠͡E!͝"  
“He’s my son I tell you!” Mr Dibley seemed to pass over the sight of his wife still on the warpath to bless Reaper’s soul with pain.  
“He lives under my roof! He’s my boy!” Morrison crossed his arms in a final kind of way and all three Dads glared at each other. Well, as well as they could when two had masks on and the third had the glower of a wet piece of celery. McCree must have really practised in front of the mirror to get all the cowboy expressions just right. Not to mention his all-over desert tan, and when Hanzo said all-over, his naked serape-strangulation memory said _all over_. More and more, Hanzo was beginning to appreciate McCree’s rise to cowboy glory when he took in these two bland pieces of rice.

And so the war over dad rights to McCree began. Mrs Dibley didn’t even get a chance to start a mother war, because Ana oh so gently took the woman aside and said that if she even tried, she would not only kill them both as they slept, but also replace their appliances with last year’s outdated ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holiday season everybody!! :D There had to be some reason why McCree ran away from home, so there's my take.  
> Today's country music song is [Life of Sin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NAmy6tjgywc), as that pretty much sums up McCree I think. I also think his left arm would have been good friends with Susy. Hope y'all enjoyed the chapter, and I would love to hear what you thought of it! Stay awesome everyone ( ◕ω◕)ﾉ₍⁽ˊᵕˋ⁾₎❆  
> Also: Does Zenyatta's Christmas skin terrify anyone else? I feel like he's going to hunt me down with those blank, black eyes, gnash those nightmare-inducing rodent teeth and then bludgeon me to death with nuts.
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	7. Dad War Part 1: Culinary Challenge

So it was settled. Three categories had been chosen for the Dads to show their Dad quality and thus win rights to call McCree ‘son’; cooking, dancing and golf, since that was the most Dad sport everyone could think of, much to Reaper’s protests. They also got bonus points for any dad jokes, although why that had been added to the Hellfest, Hanzo wasn’t sure. Zenyatta, Ana and Mercy had been selected as judges because Zenyatta had started the whole thing off, Ana was ruthless and Mercy thought it would be good fun. Reinhardt had bribed McCree out of his room with promises of Westerns and cookies, and Mei had ice-walled up the door so he couldn’t get back inside. Hanzo thought this was all a bit ridiculous, but then again, he’d just been exorcised of a ghost banjo he’d exploded with Sake, so he couldn’t really say anything. Although if Dylan won, Hanzo might just let his hand slip and pour Deadlock Death Bourbon into the man’s organic, quintuple ground coffee, then mail the comatosed imposter to Timbuktu. After they had a celebratory bonfire around his wretched vest of course.

“So, uhh, what do I do?” McCree had sandwiched himself between Reinhardt and the archer in case one of the Dads tried to jump him on unawares and make him swear fealty. The concerned parties, and D.Va, who was set on streaming the whole event, had gathered in the kitchen where the cooking challenge would take place. Dylan was still in his putrid gear, Morrison had thrown on a thick blue apron that could have been repurposed from either a smithy or a butchery and Reaper had on a homemade apron embroidered with GROVEL BEFORE THE COOK and skeleton oven mitts.  
“Just relax.” Ana assured with the warmest tone. “Go watch Westerns with Reinhardt, and we’ll bring you in for the blind taste test later on. Unless you want to announce a winner right now?”

McCree looked between Reaper cracking his knuckles, Morrison’s imploring, sad dad look that he somehow pulled off with his entire face covered and his real father, who Hanzo kind of wanted to see run into the ground by Reaper’s gourmet enchiladas and tamale. The cowboy picked up a cookie from the bench and munched away his problems.  
“I…think I’ll head on off to watch some Westerns.” McCree flashed his grin that probably made most archers a little weak at the knees, Hanzo told himself. Also, he must have unlocked some good genes from a different part of the family entirely, because Hanzo couldn’t imagine golf disaster and mall mother over there making anyone weak at the knees. “Though I look forward to it. I ain’t had nothin’ but beef jerky for five weeks, unless ya count Hanzo’s custard.”  
_“WHAT?”_ Both Mercy and Reaper gasped, and the angelic medic rushed forward to scan him. Hanzo could feel Morrison’s eye roll even though he could not see it.  
“How are you even _alive?_ ” Mercy smacked her device in confusion, and McCree shrugged as he took another bite of his cookie. Hanzo could hear Reaper mutter ‘shame’ and ‘disgrace’ and unintelligible Spanish into his skeleton oven mitt.  
“I’ve been swapping out his milk and cookies for vegetable cakes and protein shakes.” Morrison sighed and crossed his arms. Ok, that had to get dad points.  
“And you didn’t notice?” Hanzo cocked an eyebrow at McCree, who looked at the commander as if he’d been personally betrayed.  
“He has no tastebuds left, the amount he smokes.” Morrison sighed and McCree yelped in protest.  
“I can taste jus’ fine thank you very much!” He took a bite of his biscuit as if to prove his point.  
“Then what are you eating?” Morrison gestured at the cookie as Dylan watched the whole debacle with polite interest. Couldn’t he just leave? Nobody liked Dylan. Go fuck yourself, Dylan. Then again, Hanzo supposed, fucking oneself would probably be deemed ‘too wild’ for the Dibleys.  
“Some kinda delicious biscuit?” McCree shrugged and took another bite.  
“It’s a coaster.”

Everyone stared at the cowboy for a second, and Hanzo thought he heard Reaper sob just a little.  
McCree looked at the half-eaten coaster, then glanced at the bench. “Are there any more?”  
“You just don’t put enough spice in your food, Jack.” Reaper regained composure with a small sniff and drew himself up. “I’ll show you just how much Jesse can taste!”  
“You’re on!” Morrison slammed his fist down on the table and glared at the other man.  
“Good, cause I sure as hell am hungry!” McCree grinned and to Hanzo’s absolute incredulity, finished off the coaster. How. How did he find this trash can attractive.  
“Hi hungry, I’m dad.” Dylan was so fast off the mark in a scary, deadpan kind of way that Hanzo heard Morrison and Reaper’s necks click as they whipped around to look at him. No. How dare he.  
“Point to Dylan.” Zenyatta hummed with a tone that Hanzo almost thought was _smug_. Reaper uttered a primal growl, half because Dylan was ahead and half because someone had beat him to the joke, and stormed off to empty the cupboard of pans.

 

At the end of The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, McCree was led away by Mercy, who still appeared to be doing surreptitious scans of him for symptoms of beef jerky overdose. Hanzo didn’t really see why the others had made up excuses to leave – Westerns weren’t all that bad. Reinhardt had been ‘yeehawing’ in his broad German accent toward the end, McCree had done enthusiastic hand guns in every fight scene, and even Hanzo had found himself on edge in the last three-way stand-off. Besides, since the regular Rec Room was still The Exorcism Cavern, they’d had to make do with the spare room, which only had a three-seater. Which meant Hanzo and his dragons had gradually become more snuggled up into McCree’s death-christened serape throughout the film. Hige had even risen out of his arm at one point to bury their little face in it.

“Good, eh?” Reinhardt grinned across at him and clapped the back of the sofa so hard it creaked. “Not as good as Hasselhoff, but wunderbar indeed! We shall have to have a Western night every week!”  
“Perhaps we should.” Hanzo could certainly put up with that. Oh yes. Put up with being snuggled into Jesse McCree every week while he watched movies in which every heroic cowboy turned into Jesse McCree. The archer caught himself before he let out a dreamy sigh.  
“Oh and Hanzo, I heard you have an Ancient Japanese recipe that’s good for the skin!” Reinhardt boomed and Hanzo felt himself die just a little on the inside. D.Va. That treacherous tadpole. “You must tell me! As I get on I need all the recipes to keep this warrior face baby soft!”  
Distraction. Distraction. Uh, uh…  
“How about we put on some Hasselhoff and talk about it?” Hanzo couldn’t believe the words left his mouth, but anything was better than the dishonourable truth.  
“Yes!!!” Reinhardt shouted, and to Hanzo’s credit, it worked. The knight became so excited that all thoughts of rice moisturizer left his head. 

The archer wasn’t sure it was worth the shame of being found by a returned, fed McCree watching a man run toward them in tight red shorts in what had to be 480p. D.Va would have cried. Ooh, perhaps he should invite her in here. Hanzo pushed the tempting thought to the side and turned to the cowboy.  
“How was it?”  
“There were enchiladas, Hanzo! Actual enchiladas and tapas with chorizo and, and agua fresca and fresh made churros with cream and strawberries…” McCree was just about in tears of joy as he slumped back between the archer and the knight. Hanzo would have to bribe Reaper for recipes that made the cowboy this happy. It’d probably be worth some Overwatch intel.  
“And Morrison and Dylan?” He raised an eyebrow, and an odd look came over McCree’s face.  
“I dunno. One of them jus’ deep-fried everything.” McCree gave a shudder and side eyed Hasselhoff, who still hadn’t stopped slow motion running. Hanzo had a suspicion that Reinhardt was rewinding the scene and replaying it while they weren’t looking. “There’s somethin’ awful haunted about a whole, deep fried carrot.”  
It seemed even Beef Jerky King had some sort of standards, and honestly, Hanzo put a whole deep fried carrot below a coaster.  
“The other one was, like, corn and chicken an’ all that, the basic stuff.” McCree yawned, and Hanzo let the dip of the couch slide him toward the man some more as he perched with his knees against his chest.  
“And you didn’t accidentally eat the plate?” Hanzo remarked. Reinhardt jerked out of his Hasselhoff trance to rumble with laughter.  
“Hey!” The cowboy grinned and slapped his arm. “Go-lly, we’ll make a joker of you yet.”

Hanzo couldn’t hide a little smile as McCree flung his arm over behind the archer and caught his eye. Hanzo looked at McCree. McCree looked at Hanzo.  
_Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss!_ His dumbass dragons hissed.  
Hanzo shifted a little closer and looked at McCree.  
“More Westerns!” Reinhardt boomed and made them both jump apart like Winston had electrocuted them with his monkey gun. “Say, McCree, there aren’t any Westerns with Hasselhoff in them?”  
McCree breezed away like he hadn’t taken the virginity of Hanzo’s eyes and the archer received a disappointed dragon _awwwww_ from his shoulder. At least his nose hadn’t exploded again. Perhaps he was gaining resistance over time, but his sparked-out brain didn’t seem to think so. He’d almost kissed the trashcan. In front of _Reinhardt._  
“I don’t think so, but I could go through and have a gander later if you want?” McCree flicked over to Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid with the hand that wasn’t still draped behind Hanzo.  
“And I will play you a wonderful selection of Hasselhoff! He does country after all!” Reinhardt made the couch creak as he bounced with excitement. Oh. Now the knight’s interest in Westerns clicked into place.  
“Really?” McCree’s eyes lit up, but Hanzo decided he’d have to draw the line at that one, even if it meant prizing himself away from McCree’s serape.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR! :D ∠※ Three guesses as to who won that challenge :P Any bets on which Dad will come out Top Dad?  
> Anyhoo, the coaster joke is from [Blackbooks](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E1cLcJ5_MZI) \- it's a hilarious program and you should all watch it. :D  
> Today's country music is the horror and awe of [Hasselhoff and his giant cowboy boot singing Rhinestone Cowboy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PQH-W-yBqvg). The vision will stay with me to the grave.  
> If you liked the chapter, why not leave a comment or some kudos? n.n I would love to know what y'all thought of it! Stay awesome my buddies (=◕ ꒳ ◕=)  
> Also: My entire work Notes have stopped appearing on all but the last chapter. If anyone could help with that it'd be great! c:
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	8. Dad War Part 2: Dancing With The Dads

“Reaper, 76 and Dylan.” Mercy gathered everyone who wanted to be there for the Results. The three contestants stood in the middle, while everyone ringed around them in the kitchen. Mrs Dibley had made a sign that read ‘Dyl-in it for the Win’ with her apparent scrapbooking skills, because Ana’s appliance threats hadn’t covered cheerleading. “Today we witnessed three dads battle it out with culinary skill to determine who wins the title of McCree’s Dad.”  
“Gentlemen, it is time to reveal your scores.” Zenyatta gestured, and Zarya did a power-lunge forward with a screen held above her head for all to see. It had a picture of Reaper, Morrison as his pre-explosion twink self and a blurry snap of Dylan. Hanzo was a little sad they hadn’t accepted his photograph of a wet piece of celery as an icon, but they were almost identical anyway. “Ana, Mercy and McCree tried your dishes and have given their ratings to decide placement.”  
“Reaper.” Ana stood, her face a calm yet brutal mask. “You cooked a selection of chorizo, prawn and grilled chicken tapas as an entrée, chicken, coriander and jalapeno enchiladas as a main and fresh-made churros with cream and fruit for dessert. Dylan, you cooked Batter avec Everything, and Morrison, you produced baked chicken and fresh corn.”  
“We have all entered our scored, and the winner of this challenge, for six points is…” Mercy broke off as Lucio hit a drum roll track. “Reaper!”

Big surprise there, Hanzo thought as the MasterChef of Doom tossed his head back for an evil laugh. Hanzo’s mistrust toward Dylan was growing by the minute, because who in their right mind just _deep fried_ everything and thought it was a good idea? At least it hadn’t been Morrison, but in all honesty, he had been a little worried for a while.  
“Gosh darn you Gabe!” Morrison swung an arm in frustration and Reaper wheezed out of his laugh.  
“You’ll forgive me.”  
“What makes you say that?” The commander huffed and glared with his cyclops eye.  
_“Refrigerator.”_

Everyone glanced at each other with confusion, except Genji who literally ran out of the room, straight toward the five crates of Deadlock Bourbon stashed under the stairs. Hanzo watched him go with mild curiosity and wondered where Genji had picked up a trigger for refrigerators. Maybe it was a cyborg thing.  
Morrison just crossed his arms and gave nothing away. “Touché.”

“In second place, for 4 points is Morrison, however he gets a bonus point for keeping McCree alive for 5 weeks,” Mercy continued over the sound of Genji’s heavy drinking from the hallway. “And Dylan receives two points in third, but also has a bonus point for a classic dad joke.”  
Hanzo was a little concerned that McCree’s life and a dad joke was on the same level, but nobody complained, so they trooped into the meeting hall for the next challenge. It seemed Reinhardt and Zayra had got a little competitive clearing the large floor, and now several chairs had been embedded in the far wall and the table seemed a victim of tug o’ war – ripped clean down the middle and tossed to opposite ends of the room.  
“I’m too old for this.” Morrison took in the carnage with a weary sigh and added it to the Overwatch tab.  
“Hi Too Old For This, I’m Dad!” Reaper was so gleeful that he went shadow form and noodled around, clapping his hands with delight as his leader board score went up. At a glance, Morrison looked disgruntled, but Hanzo was close enough to hear him stage whisper ‘Yeah you are’ then the commander turned his visor off then on. It took the archer a second to work out that was a wink, and Reaper covered one of his mask eye sockets in reply. There was the slam of a door in the distance as Genji departed the building. Hanzo was tempted to rile them for their PDA, but he couldn’t talk. He’d almost kissed GarbageCan McFuckTruck in front of grandad.

Mercy, Zenyatta and Ana took a seat behind one of the table halves which Zayra had helped Ana prop up with a large gun, and they doled out some prepared score cards.  
“Alright then. Second challenge is dancing. Now – “  
“TA͟͝S̨̨T̡̛E̡ ̷YO̴͜UR̴̴ ̧D̶͢OO̶M̡,̵͟ ̴M͞ORT̡͟͢A̴͜͠L͞S̷!̷” Reaper overrode Ana and swirled centre stage. Right at home then. With a dramatic flair, he tossed his guns away and the room went dark as someone flicked the switch.  
“L̶̢̕I͝GH̢͘T̵S͏̧̕!͘” They heard Reaper call, and then Bastion shone a spotlight on his forehead from where he was perched on one of the chairs embedded high in the wall. Hanzo cocked his head in confusion. How had he even…? “P̵A͡R̶͞T̶͠N̡̡̕E̢͜R͡͞͏!”  
Widowmaker dropped from the ceiling, into Reaper’s waiting dance hold and solved the riddle of who’d turned the lights off. Hanzo wondered how many hours the Talon Agent had spent planning this; if he put as much dedication into trying to destroy Overwatch as he did into being a drama queen, they’d all probably be in ruins by now.  
_“How long has she – “_  
“M͢A̶̧E̢͠͞S̵͡T͞R͟O̶̸!” Reaper growled and Lucio struck up a heated tango from his impromptu DJ desk, as he grinned his little heart out. All his life he’d secretly really wanted someone to call him maestro but nobody was Edgelord enough nowadays.

“Isn’t she spiffing!” Tracer sighed from beside him as Reaper and Widowmaker threw each other around to fiery Latino music. Morrison seemed to have sparked out, but Hanzo hoped it wasn’t literal. Last time, they’d been stuck on a mission with Torbjörn and Reinhardt, both of whom seemed to think the best way to remove and fix the visor was to hit it with a hammer. By the time the argument had devolved into both of them yelling in Swedish and German and only understanding 15% of what the other was saying, Morrison had tried to run away, blind, into the city and almost KO’d himself on a streetlamp. So Hanzo had taken it upon himself to sit on his commander and roast marshmallows over his smoking visor until Mercy came along.  
“Indeed. They are both very talented.” Hanzo snapped out of his flashbacks, and then realized Tracer hadn’t been at Overwatch since the pie war. “Wait, where have you been?”  
“Out.” Tracer smirked, then frowned. “Wait, you didn’t notice I was gone?”  
“We were…distracted.” If the past few days had been anything, _Jesse McCree_ , they’d been distracting. Tracer also seemed too distracted by a tangoing Windowmaker to be angry, and Hanzo had to give it to them; they could really dance. He wondered, for a second, what sort of dancing McCree might be capable of, but a warning gong smashed the words ((( _SQUARE DANCING_ ))) into his brain, so the archer reshuffled that priority. 

After a few minutes of wild yet platonic tango, Reaper and Widowmaker froze in a final pose to Tracer’s shrill whistle, and the lights came back up.  
“Very good Reaper.” Zenyatta said with a mild kind of calm as he hovered at The Desk of Judgement. Hanzo shuddered from left over pie-tin-smiley-face trauma, and wondered whether the monk was as lovely and peaceful as he seemed on the outside. “Scores?”  
Ana held up a 0. Mercy held up a 0. Zenyatta held up a 0.  
“W̨͠Ḩ͟A̧͏T̨?̡̨?̛̛̛?̸?͘͠” Reaper turned for his guns but Ana just cleared her throat.  
“If you’d let me finish, Reyes, you would have heard me say, the most dad-like dancer wins.” She gave her scorecards a prim tap and looked back up. “Although very impressive, that was the least dad-like dance I have ever seen in my life. Too risqué if your kids are watching.”  
Reaper gave a snarl, tossed his cape and marched out like the prima donna he was. Morrison looked torn between staying and following the sexy, angry tango man for exactly two seconds, then darted out the door behind him. Subtle. Real subtle. Hanzo hoped Genji had left the corridor and run far, far away. He had no idea.

“Dylan. You shall go next.” Zenyatta gestured to the floor as Tracer and Widowmaker snuggled up on some table debris to watch the rest of the show.  
Dylan pulled Sharon with him and did the most boring sway-waltz dance thing Hanzo had ever seen in his life. Everybody noticed Morrison sidle on back in because they were all just desperate for something else to entertain them. Hanzo even considered shooting in the couples’ kneecaps to add some entertainment to the show, but ended up just letting McCree’s profile indulge him in dangerous cowboy fantasies. But the judges seemed satisfied, with a 6, 6 and a generous 8 from Zenyatta. Hanzo had personally hoped for another 6, to curse them back to the Deep Fried Carrot Pit of Hell where they belonged, but like shooting out kneecaps, not all wishes could come true. Not all, but some. The fact that McCree still had no towel was proof of that.

“Now Morrison?” Zenyatta offered and the commander shuffled with a little discomfort.  
“I, uh, can’t really dance.”  
“Aw, go on man!” Lucio called, and Hanzo noticed he was wearing a little nametag labelled Maestro. “Look I’ll hit up some beats I _know_ you’ll like!”  
Wake Me Up Before You Go Go, a song so old that Lucio must have had to go through the archives to find it just for Morrison struck up, and the commander looked a little lost. He did a little shimmy. Then sort of grooved on the spot. Then did disco fingers. It was _the most_ dad thing Hanzo had ever seen in his life. Needless to say, perfect 10s all around.

As Morrison received his round of applause, Hanzo’s com device tinkled. Someone was _ringing_ him?  
The archer edged away from the ensuing dance party, where Reinhardt had brought out The Hoff and answered it with caution. Nobody rang on coms, usually paged or texted, but the number was Genji so he’d better check what his little brother wanted.  
“Hello?”  
“Hello, is this…uh, Dishonour?” The lady on the other end sounded apologetic, and Hanzo sighed. They didn’t call each other their real names on coms in case the devices got lost or compromised; Genji was just labelled under Naked.  
“Yes, that is me. Who is this?” The caller didn’t sound like another operative, friendly or not…  
“This is Sergeant Camara of the Police Department. We found your friend inebriated, hanging upside down from a bunting flag in the city market, covered in chopped fruit yelling ‘I am the fruit ninja’ with a melon on his head.” How the sergeant delivered that report without cracking up still boggled Hanzo’s mind years on from that moment. “We are holding him on charges of public indecency too, as he is, well, naked.”  
“I know. I know.” Hanzo sighed into the com. Whatever Deadlock put in their whisky, it never ended well for anyone. He was surprised the gang actually functioned and wasn’t spread throughout various gutters, Denny’s parking lots and hospitals. “We’ll be there to sort this out shortly.”  
He turned to the victorious, bemused commander. Time to fire up the minivan again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucky Reaper decided not to do his Hip’s Don’t Lie routine or Morrison might have Died. I honestly don't know how those two get it on so much, this was meant to be a McHanzo fic dammit :P Today's music consists of [Fiery Latino Music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6WhLCNgyXP4), [Morrison's Song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bdgndI7re4Y) and [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Xyy6DHkCuuQ), which I always imagine McCree singing to Hanzo. As always I'd love to hear what you thought of the chapter - a comment always makes my day. Stay awesome y'all ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	9. Dad War Part 3: Elimination Round

They had to postpone the third round of Dad War until the next day because Mercy was holed up in the MedLab with Genji. How he’d managed to get his head inside a melon without the thing smashing, nobody knew, but surgical procedures had to be taken to get it off. McCree just gave him a hi-five on his return for his new membership into the Dishonoured Drinking Deplorables that anyone who had ever drunk Deadlock whisky was a part of. But with everyone alive and well again, the show had to go on.

The peaceful golf community didn’t know what they were in for when the combined forces of Overwatch and Talon descended on their pristine turf – some by the trusty minivan, some by mech, some by motorbike and sidecar and some by dramatic cloud of smoke. It had meant to be a golf-off between the three Dads, but then Reaper had oh-so kindly offered the rest of the team a go, and things predictably went to shit.

Hanzo could not seem to grasp the concept of getting the ball into the hole, but by some misdirection, firmly believed that the aim of the game was to annihilate the competition by hitting the ball high into the air and watch it KO an unsuspecting player from above. Genji got distracted from trying to stop his brother kill innocent golfers when he deflected one of Hanzo’s Death Balls and got a hole in one. Thus Torbjörn set up The Golf Cannon and soon he and Genji were getting holes-in-one everywhere across the field. Both Reinhardt and Zarya cracked their necks, rolled their shoulders and smashed their golf balls so hard that they flew up into the sky and disappeared with a twinkle. Mercy forsook the other judges, who’d taken refuge in a tree, and had hijacked a golf cart with Pharah to pick up Hanzo’s victims. 76 and Dylan had soldiered on through the chaos, until Reaper became so frustrated with their progress (and Dylan correcting 76’s golfing position) that he chased them both with a golf club roaring DIE DIE DIE, that is, until one of Hanzo’s golfs ball put him to sleep. 

“The dragon claims another victim.” Hanzo marked down another tally on his scorecard, and McCree, who had decided that the safest place from airborne missiles was right beside the one launching them, laugh-snorted.  
“D’you always do that?” He grinned and slung his golf club across his shoulders to drape both arms over it. Day by day, he was not only finding Hanzo a knockout (even without the golf balls) but cute as a button too. Hells bells, McCree wanted to ask the man out, but Hanzo? Likin’ him? The archer was all proper and neat, and even when he was drunk, he went regal instead of sloppy. Unlike his brother who got violent against fruit. McCree still hadn’t figured out why Genji had got wasted and fled into the city to wage war on fresh produce, but life weren’t exciting without a little mystery.  
“Do what?” Hanzo picked out another golf ball from the bag he’d stolen and scoped out Dylan.  
“Narrate yerself.” He grinned and watched the archer smack a ball into the air. It sailed in a neat arc, then Dylan hit the floor like a dead horse. Ah well. As Soldier Dad said, it’d probably build him some character. “Like imagine if I went around like ‘the cowboy rolls into the fray, serape blowin’ in the breeze, a heroic picture of the Wild West…’”  
Hanzo stared at him for a moment with a kinda blank expression that probably said ‘fool’, then checked his nose. “More like ‘the cowboy jingle-jangles into a room, everyone shoots him and he dies.’”

McCree stopped for a moment, then couldn’t stop the laugh that rolled on up outta him. He wasn’t sure whether the archer was trying to joke with him or not, but he sure as hell found it funny. The cowboy didn’t notice Hanzo’s pleased little smile, or that he lined up Mrs Dibley, who was on a lawn chair with a kale and quinoa smoothie, for the next shot.  
“Aw Hanzo!” McCree patted the man on the bare bicep with a grin and swore he heard a happy little trill from somewhere. “You’re a hog-killin’ time, you know that?”  
“I have not killed any hogs, McCree.” Hanzo frowned and thwacked the next ball.  
“It’s a sayin’, you know. It means you’re a good time and you’re lotsa fun…” McCree trailed off as the archer stared at him like he had on the couch the other day. Kinda all curious and hot-lookin’.  
“You think I’m fun?” Hanzo frowned a little, and McCree found that a bit sad.  
“’Course y’are!” He grinned and chewed on a probably the only sheaf of straw grass on this entire course. “I’ve had more fun with you in the past week or so than I had since I hijacked a train at the tender age of 15.”  
  
Hanzo opened his mouth, either shocked that McCree had stolen a train at 15 or searching for words. But he never found them because all of a sudden, the cry of FIRE IN THE HOLE shattered across the field, a golf ball plopped into the target and the hill about twenty metres in front of them exploded.  
“Run!” Hanzo barked and grabbed him by the hand. Whelp, McCree could certainly settle for holding hands while high-tailing it across a golf-course mine field.  
“Yehaw!” He grinned and held on to his hat with the other hand as Pharah and Mercy’s six-seater golf cart piled with bodies screeched up beside them.  
“Come on boys!” Mercy yelled over the next explosion, and they jumped in behind the medic and her captain.  
“Brother, what did you do?” Pharah had a squint that Clint Eastwood would be proud of, but McCree just turned and pointed at Junkrat cackling among the flames like The Devil Himself. “Oh. I shall deal with that.”  
“Good luck babe!” Mercy waved as the captain blasted off out of the cart to rain some justice from above. 

 

They all lived, which was a bonus, McCree thought as he watched a news broadcast in the kitchen about a satellite which had been destroyed. Scientists had found two neat, round, nay golf-ball-shaped holes in the side of it, but still couldn’t figure out what in space could have possibly caused that. Apparently the Dibleys had suffered amnesia from Hanzo and had been smuggled back to Suburbia in the dead of night, which McCree was all too pleased about. No trouser plaid for him. Both the archer and Emo Dad had tried to steal that godawful vest for a bonfire, and he hoped they’d succeeded, despite Mercy’s insistence that everything should go back the same as it had come.  
“ – Y̵O͟͝U ͟͠HA̛VE͘ ̕͏͟N̕O ͘͘͟PR̴͞O͝OF̢!” Emo Dad’s voice growled from the corridor. Oh con sarn it, those two were at it again. Sometimes McCree thought the old fellas just liked to argue.  
“I was ahead of you when the tournament started, Gabe!” Soldier Dad exclaimed and both of them stormed into the kitchen. McCree put down what he hoped was one of Reinhardt’s cookies, but could have been another coaster, and caught them both around the necks with a hug. They both stopped in shock at being enveloped by cowboy.  
“Yer both my dads, you silly chooks.” He leaned over and kissed Reaper’s mask on the cheek. “You’re my Emo Dad – “ He kissed Morrison’s mask too. “ – and you’re my Soldier Dad.”

To his surprise, the two just leaned in and patted him on the back.  
“I’ll never make you play golf if you don’t want to, son.” Soldier Dad sniffed.  
“I’ll never make you eat deep-fried carrot.” Emo Dad growled in an emotional kind of way and McCree just patted them both. “I am going to send you food parcels until you learn how to cook.”  
As McCree internalized his celebratory yipikaye to keep The Moment, Soldier Dad leaned back and his forehead creased with a frown. “What’s wrong with my cooking?”  
“Are you kidding me?” The Talon Agent leaned back too and McCree rolled his eyes. So much for The Moment. “Your food is so bland that afterwards _water_ has a taste!”  
“Well your food is so spicy, the Spice Girls should sue you for copyright!” Morrison retorted and McCree gently eased away before he could be caught in a hand-slap crossfire. There they went again.  
“The Spice Girls? What were the dinosaurs like back then, Jack?” Reaper, the older agent, put his hands on his hips and the cowboy knew the exact sassy look he had on beneath his mask.  
“Better conversation than you, you Phantom of the Opera wanna-be!” Soldier Dad gestured at Reaper’s outfit and McCree choked on a shocked gasp. Only Morrison could get away with insulting Reaper’s dress sense and live.  
“Well at least I have some kind of dignity, Commander _Sock Tan!_ ” Emo Dad snarled and backed Morrison up against the fridge. Oop, this was McCree’s sign to _leave_.  
He reversed out the kitchen door as Morrison yelled “How about you put that smart mouth to good use and _suck my dick?_ "  
“ _Fine_ , maybe it’ll shut you up!” Emo Dad shouted back and it seemed McCree had _very much_ made the right decision. When shit hit the fridge, he knew from experience not to hang around for the closing act. 

“Hey McCree!” Genji waved as he made his way down the stairs, and the cowboy nodded, then backtracked as the ninja strode on past him.  
“You ain’t goin’ to the kitchen by any chance?” He asked in what he hoped was a casual kind of way that didn’t say My Dads Are Getting It On Against The Refrigerator and caught Genji’s arm.  
“I’m hungry...” The other man looked between the kitchen and McCree as though the cowboy had just stolen his favourite Flying Star of Death.  
“Well pard’ner, how about you come up and try some good ol’ American beefy jerk, huh? Expand your palette?” McCree tugged him back up the stairs, and saved the Younger Shimada from Mental Scarring: The Sequel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why does it always end like this?  
> Anyhoo, hope you enjoyed the chapter! I would love to hear what you thought of it, and thank you so much for all the kudos and comments already ^.^ Today's country music is [Devil's Got You Beat](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=raUCnM9Tifc), ft Junkrat as the Devil. I'm just curious...who actually listens to the country music? (although I don't blame ya if ya don't) Leave a concealed 'yehaw' in your comment if you do :P Cheers for reading and stay awesome! (((o(*ﾟ▽ﾟ*)o)))
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	10. Hanzo Tries To Woo and McCree Almost Dies

With the Dad Drama out the way for now, Hanzo felt it was time to sit down and properly plan out a battle strategy to seduce the cowboy. So the archer made some tea, pulled up an electronic notebook, re-tied his hair and tapped his stylus against his lip in thought. McCree did think of him as a friend. Which was…wonderful. Hanzo set his tea gently to the side for a second, took a breath, then buried his head in his hands with a happy little squeal that _nobody_ was ever going to hear. McCree thought he was _fun_ and laughed at his jokes that nobody else even got, and was always smiling around him…  
_Pull yourself together and plan!_ Hotaru rose off his arm and picked up the stylus Hanzo had dropped in its little mouth, and the archer took a few deep breaths to calm himself. It was broken by a few grins and small sounds Hanzo would never admit to, but he got there.

The dragon is composed. The dragon does not squeal. The dragon is ready to woo.  
_Yes, plan so we can touch the McCree butt_ Hige slithered up his shoulder to look at what was going to be written down.  
“You are not touching his butt, Hige.” Hanzo frowned and took a sip of green tea, and the dragon’s little whiskers drooped  
_Please please please? Only once I promise…_ Hige squiggled its half-tattoo belly on his shoulder, eyes wide, and the archer couldn’t say no to that. Some dragon tamer he was.  
“Fine but only once.”  
Both dragons got so excited that they sneezed out small storm clouds, which promptly began to rain in Hanzo’s tea. Well, at least they hadn’t gone for the fire-rain clouds this time. He swatted the rain away and got back to business.  
“Alright, what sort of things would an American like?” Hanzo hummed as he opened a search tab on his pad.  
_Give him something shiny!_ Hotaru nibbled on his elbow in excitement and Hanzo glared at it. The dragon stopped, but as soon as he looked away, it nibbled again.  
_Something pretty and shiny!_ Hige added and went to nibble his ear but Hanzo fended it off with his stylus.  
_A PEARL!_ Both dragons sat up with excitement. _Pearls are the best!!_  
“He’s a cowboy not a dragon. He’d probably think it was weird.” Hanzo sighed, but what had he really expected from two genderless spirit dragons whose knowledge of relationships came mainly from anime.  
_Hanzo, can I have my pearl?_ Hotaru said in a hopeful little voice.  
_And me, and me!_ Hige tapped his shoulder with its little whiskers in excitement and sneezed out another storm cloud.  
“So long as you don’t go and touch McCree’s butt without my permission.” Hanzo took in their wide-eyed little nods and reached up for the puzzle box on his vanity. 

With several practised pushes and slides, he opened it to reveal two pearls about the size of walnuts on a bed of red silk and offered the box to the pair to taste out their own with their little tongues. The pearls were a family heirloom for the dragons, a treat for if they’d been good. And this week had been especially hard with the Banjo Trials and Butt Temptation. Hige slithered back up to its perch on Hanzo’s shoulder, with its pearl cupped in its little feelers, while Hotaru happily nosed the other one around on his thigh. Well that should keep them busy for a bit and leave Hanzo to his seduction study. The archer flicked through some internet pages with intense focus for a minute.

“It says perhaps a note. Or hand-made chocolate may be a valid strategy also.” Hanzo pulled at his lip for a second in thought – he’d never made chocolate before. Reaper might give him tips, but Hanzo didn’t really want to tell the mood-swing drama queen he was trying to steal the heart of his hard-fought-for son. “And a personalized gift…”  
_Kiss him. That’s personal_ Hotaru stopped sucking on their pearl for a moment to add in.  
_Kiss his butt_ Hige piped up, and the archer glared at the pair of them as heat trickled over his cheeks. It was the hot tea. Yes, it was the hot tea because the dragon did not blush.  
“Do not make me take away your pearls.”  
Both dragons shrank away with worried coos, and Hanzo hummed back to show he wasn’t really all that pissed off at them.  
“Now, come on, help me think of something to write in the note.” His English lettering wasn’t all that practised, but he was sure the cowboy, whose English was questionable at the best of times, wouldn’t judge him.

 

McCree staggered through his door, kicked off his boots and smothered a yawn. Vishkar had really gone done fought like Kilkenny cats today, but the team, armed with a vehement Lucio, had sent ‘em back to Hell or to home by the end of it. The cowboy made it over to his hammock and then he saw it. What the…McCree froze and tore the note pinned to the fabric off.

**I WANT TO TAKE YOU OUT**  
**HIGH NOON**  
**WEDNESDAY**  
**THE GULLY OUTSIDE THE WATCHPOINT**  
**DO NOT BRING ANY OTHERS**

Well thunderation. McCree had received his fair share of death threats and challenges in the past, but none had been able to write in such a haphazard, chilling font. And thissun was bold too, sneaking into his room, challenging him for a High Noon stakeout! McCree scoped the space out with his cowboy squint for any trace of the intruder, but whoever it was had been all too careful. Part of his brain said to report this to Morrison, but McCree had dealt with this kinda thing before – an old hand at it in fact. No need to go botherin’ Soldier Dad about it when he was tired enough. Jus’ one more cocksure varmint to lay low; a regular day’s work really. So McCree put the letter on his shelf, added the duel to his reminders and kicked back in his hammock for a well-earned kip. Little did he know, this was only the beginning.

***

Hanzo’s triumph was confirmed the next day. He’d been having breakfast with Genji in what used to be the lounge, but had now been transformed into Rec Room Mark 2, as the previous Rec Room was still a cave and now had seemed to have gathered a colony of bats which nobody wanted to deal with. Then _it_ had happened. McCree and Pharah walked into the kitchen, which was attached to the lounge by open-plan design, so Hanzo got to hear every word they said while he pretended to pay attention to his brother’s choice of morning cartoon: Naruto.  
“ – a training run on Wednesday from 11-2 and you’re welcome to join.” Pharah continued as she grabbed her usual bowl of fruit loops.  
“Sorry, but no can do sister. I’m booked out Wednesday.” McCree winked and Hanzo was greeted with a violent hiss moulded vaguely around the word ‘yes’ from his dragons. Genji glanced at them, but as Naruto had just won a seemingly important battle and his dragons were anime trash, it wasn’t all that weird.  
“Ooh, what’s on for you?” Pharah led McCree into the lounge as Hanzo’s heart jumped up into his throat.  
“A special little somethin’.” McCree smirked and Hanzo had to hide his smile in his steamed rice. Control. McCree obviously did not want to be public about it, so Hanzo would abide by his wishes. “Don’t you worry, I’ll make it to your next training run no worries.”  
“You better.” Pharah sunk down onto a beanbag to watch the show, and the cowboy turned to the Shimada brothers on the couch. Hanzo swore his gaze lingered on him for a moment…well of course. Cowfuck was just showing his returned affection.  
“Y’all got room for one more?”  
“Of course.” Hanzo shot him a polite nod, which would give nothing away to Pharah and Genji, and rolled up onto his knees in a smooth movement to make more space. 

The cowboy tipped his hat in a way that _totally didn’t make Hanzo’s breath catch_ and slumped down beside him with one of Reaper’s chipotle, jalapeno and egg bagels in one hand. The other arm slung up behind Hanzo on the couch, and the archer leaned back against it just a little to show he appreciated the gesture.  
“What’s this then?” McCree nodded at the yellow-haired, screaming anime man as he munched away.  
“Naruto.” All three of them replied without hesitation and Hanzo raised an incredulous eyebrow. Where had this man _been_ for every breakfast at the watchpoint with Genji?  
McCree glanced at all of them with slight shock at their unity, then turned back to his bagel. “How many episodes do I gotta go through to catch up?”  
“This is episode 3,051,220.” Genji rattled off. Had his brother watched all of them? If he had, Hanzo was a) worried for his health and b) uncertain where he’d found that much time in his young life.  
“Hoooly shiet.” McCree whistled right at the moment Morrison walked in.  
“Language!” The commander barked and grumped off toward the cornflakes in his camouflage onesie and visor bunny slippers.

 

Now that McCree had accepted his affection, Hanzo believed it was time for more gifts, especially as the archer was off on a mission tonight and he didn’t want the man to think he’d lost interest. Chocolate seemed the best option at short notice. He’d mulled over the idea, and there was only one flaw: McCree’s coaster-eating tastebuds. To impress the trashcan, Hanzo needed to come up with something extra special. In a strange, sepia-tinged memory, Reaper’s words from the cooking contest swam back.  
_“You just don’t put enough spice in your food, Jack.”_  
From his searches on The Internet, it seemed that chilli chocolate was certainly a thing, but Hanzo doubted the store-bought stuff would get through to the man’s tongue. The archer’s mind came to a screeching stop as everything relevant to ‘McCree’s tongue’ popped into his head, but he took control before he could bleed out from his nose, and headed out the watchpoint to the market.

“My hottest chilli?”  
Hanzo had made a beeline for what appeared to be The Chilli Stall; red, yellow and green peppers hung from the awnings, and the trays were stacked with shapes and sizes Hanzo had never seen before. It was run by a squat Mexican lady who looked at him like she couldn’t believe he was serious.  
“Yes. It has to be very, very hot.” He clarified and hoped nobody here recognized him as the brother of the fool who had waged drunken war on a fruit stall here. There was still police tape stuck to a post above which Genji had presumably hung, buck naked with a melon on his head. The shame.  
“Ok then. This is the Carolina Reaper.” The stall owner held up a little red chilli by the stalk with a kind of reverence. “The hottest chilli in the world!”  
It looked a bit small, so Hanzo took five.

 

McCree whistled a happy ol’ country tune as he skipped on up the stairs. It might’ve been his imagination, but was Hanzo cosying up to him a bit more than usual? He sighed and thought back to this morning when the archer had leaned up against his oh-so-casual arm. Was that too obvious? That he kept slingin’ his arm around the archer whenever they sat on a couch together?  
“Aw hell Jesse, you sure are beatin’ the Devil around the hickory stump like a teen with his first crush on this one, aren’t you?” McCree sighed to himself and drew a hand across his face. Nah, Hanzo probably didn’t like him like that, he were probably just bein’ friendly. Or was he? The cowboy pulled out a cigar with an inward sigh. He’d never had any problem dropping pickup lines on anyone he found tootalootin’ before, but maybe he was having a problem with Hanzo because that man would shoot him in the ass if he got offended. Well, Hanzo could shoot something in his – 

“What in tarnation?” McCree puffed out some smoke as he spotted a blue-wrapped box in front of his door. The large man checked the corridor left to right, but whoever had left this was long gone. So he shrugged and unwrapped it as he pushed into his room. Oh. Chocolates. He knew exactly who had sent this! Emo Dad was really treatin’ him after the Dad Debacle, wasn’t he? They were probably those amazin’ ones with a real creamy centre that only Reyes knew how to make. McCree chuckled and popped three into his mouth.  
He screamed.

Or he would have done if his throat hadn’t choked up and he’d gasped on his own pain as he could have believed his mouth had literally caught fire. _Poison._ That lowdown, dirty sneakin’ polecat lickspittle hadn’t been able to wait till Wednesday for a shot at him! McCree clutched at his throat, on his knees, as his eyes watered so hard that it rivalled Pharah’s video for tear induction.  
“Ana…” He wheezed as the sick thud of his heart filled his ears, but she was downstairs watching something with Reinhardt – there was no way she’d hear him, and he’d left his com in the kitchen. Goddamnit, this cowboy was not goin’ down to some backstabbing venom. So McCree dragged himself out of his room as he broke out in a cold sweat, clawed Ana’s luckily unlocked door open as his vision swam, yanked her Biotic Rifle down from its hook and shot himself five times in the foot.  
“Hells bells McCree, ya goddamn featherhead.” He slumped onto the carpet and groaned in relief as the healing darts did their magic. “You certainly ain’t gonna tell anyone about this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was legit cackling throughout writing this whole chapter because my god they are such idiots. The flirting fun begins! Also as much as other-animal!Dragons are fun, I really like to see if I can write Dragon!Dragons and still make them as fun n.n Today's country music is [Better Dig Two](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZIdCo_QAz_E), because Hanzo's flirting is a little dangerous. If you liked the chapter, why leave some kudos or tell me what you thought with a comment? They always make my day, and thank you so much to everybody who has already left kudos and comments!! (♥ω♥*)
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	11. Hanzo Continues to Woo and Genji Almost Dies.

Personalized gift. Personalized gift. _Personalized gift._ It had been on Hanzo’s mind the whole mission. Perhaps a hat, he thought as he shot as man through the head. No, McCree already had a hat which he loved far too much to replace. Some quieter spurs, Hanzo mused as he revealed his foes with a sonic arrow, then notched a scatter shot to seal their doom. But he didn’t even know where to buy spurs in this day and age, as McCree’s had probably been dug up in an archaeological excavation. Something personal, something that said Jesse McCree. Something that _literally_ said Jesse McCree. Bullets? He knew cowboys were very much drawn to renown, and what could add more to the legend than a man who was so confident he shot his victims with monogrammed bullets? Perfect.  
“The dragon triumphs again.” Hanzo smirked at his brilliant idea, then shot Hige and Hotaru into the fray to clean up the stragglers so they could get home and make McCree’s day.

There was a little hitch outside the gun store, when Hotaru had got far too excited about the whole plan, sneezed out a fire storm cloud and set one of the bullets off, but nobody had died and five was a far more aesthetically pleasing number anyway. Hanzo then put the engraver’s fee on the Overwatch tab and joined the others for lunch before they took a plane back home.

***

Rice was not the same anymore. Not without beefy jerky. Genji pushed it around in his bowl – he hadn’t seen McCree downstairs this evening, but there was none left in the dispenser and the ninja _hungered_ for it. With his new cyborg tongue, things tasted a little different to what they had before, but rice and beefy jerky somehow just _completed_ him. He’d have to go beg it off McCree though, because nobody was willing to let him near shops for the time being after the Fruit Ninja Incident. So Genji pitter-pattered up the stairs and knocked on the cowboy’s door.  
“McCree?”  
“Yeah, come on in.” The man’s usually-casual voice sounded a little more tense, which rang a huge alarm gong in Genji’s head. The last time McCree had shown any sign of worry, Dad, Reaper and The Suburban Fucks had gone to War. 

The cowboy’s room was a mess as usual; clothes and breastplates on the ground, boots seemingly just kicked off, and there were his usual cowboy film posters on the wall right up beside his own wanted poster. And that’s why they were so easy to spot. Four pristine bullets lined up with perfect spacing on McCree’s dresser, and when he looked at the man in the hammock, he saw a fifth being examined between those large fingers.  
“McCree…? Is everything alright?” Genji tried, and the cowboy sat up, then chucked the bullet his way. With reflexes faster than a regular bullet, Genji caught it with ease.  
“Take a look at that.”  
The ninja turned it, and frowned as he saw the words _Jesse McCree_ engraved into the side. From the man’s treatment of them, he hadn’t done it himself.  
“Monogrammed bullets. That’s kind of cool actually.” Genji tried, and wondered who might have gone to the trouble. Maybe Hanzo would like some monogrammed arrows for his birthday. Even as a joke, that might be a fun idea.  
“See, that’s jus’ what it ain’t.” McCree sighed and took the bullet back. “Someone’s been out for my hide for days now – first a warnin’ note, then poison, and now look.”  
  
He set the bullet back on the counter next to the others. “Five. There’s six bullets in a gun like mine, which means whoever sent this is sayin’ they got a bullet with my name on it. They’ve got cash, they’re slippery as a fish, and they’re good at what they do from what I’m readin’. I’m meeting them at high noon tomorrow, and I jus’ hope their bark’s worse n’ their bite.”  
“Have you told Morrison?” Genji frowned; surely McCree’s power at High Noon could deal with whoever it was, unless there was more than one powerful cowboy warlock in the world. Oh no. The ninja didn’t think he could deal with two magical cowboy weaboos. He was fairly sure that simply through dedication and giving his life over to reviving the cowboy aesthetic, the Old West Spirits had been so flattered that they’d blessed McCree with their powers. If there was another one as crazy about cowboys as McCree and they faced off, the spirits might get torn and suck this side of the continent down into Western Cowboy Hell in their confusion. And Genji did not want to see what constituted as Western Cowboy Hell like Iowa had.  
“Nah. The price is on my head, it’s my problem to deal with. It’s not like I ain’t done it before. ‘Sides, the note said to come alone.” McCree shrugged, kicked back onto his hammock and tipped his Stetson over his face.  
“Can I see the note?” Genji was a little worried if McCree was worried. The cowboy just slid off a sheaf of paper from the shelf beside him and handed it over.  
What. The. Fuck.

“Uh, McCree, could you excuse me for a moment?” There was only one person who wrote English letters like they were carving a death threat into a tree with an arrow. Genji knew his brother harboured hostile feelings toward the cowboy over certain banjo-themed incidents, but why would Hanzo want to challenge McCree at High Noon of all times?? Did he have a death wish?  
“Sure?” The cowboy took back Hanzo’s note with a frown, but before he could say anything else, Genji had dashed out of the room to the one next door.  
“Hanzo!” He stage whispered and knocked. “Hanzo, what the fuck?”  
“Come in brother.” Hanzo replied in Japanese, and the ninja just about burst into the room. The archer had his bow out for cleaning on his lap, probably for his secret death match with McCree tomorrow.  
“What’s going on with you and McCree?” Genji hissed as he shut the door behind him, and Hanzo’s eyes flew wide.  
“How did you…?”  
“It wasn’t difficult to figure out, brother.” Genji crossed his arms and did his best to look disapproving without any kind of facial expressions. “Just tell me why. This is going a bit far, isn’t it?”

Hanzo, for some odd reason, looked like he’d been hit by the Dishonour Bomb, then he took a breath and put his bow down on the floor beside him.  
“It might be hard for you to understand, Genji, but…” Hanzo struggled for a second, as if lost for words. “I was angry at him, I was, and then he got attacked in the shower by a gangster, I went to help and he was perfect and naked and wet and strangling a man with that wonderful serape, and I _want_ him Genji, I _want_ him, and I don’t care what you think!”

Genji froze. Hanzo didn’t want to kill Mr 24/7 cowboy cosplay. He wanted to date him. The man who washed once in two weeks if they were lucky. The man who could eat 10 burritos in 3 minutes. Had Hanzo just called that dog-eared serape ‘wonderful’? Genji didn’t know whether to laugh or cry and his cyborg body froze up from the war of mixed signals.  
“ – and his chaps make his ass look so good that even my dragons want to touch it – “ Hanzo continued, as Genji’s visual screen glitched because he just couldn’t process that Hanzo, the most prim, traditional Japanese honour-bitch wanted to date a man who ate coasters. His _dragons_ , the ancient beings who took years to master, wanted the weabooty. Memories swam back as Hanzo continued to gush in vehement, frustrated Japanese, seemingly unable to stop now started. McCree with his arm behind Hanzo on the couch at breakfast the other day. Hanzo and McCree golfing together. His brother refusing to leave McCree and Reinhardt to their Westerns. Oh sweet cherry blossoms, they’d been flirting all this time and Genji hadn’t even _noticed_. What kind of brother was he? This was it. This was the epitome of dishonour.

“…Genji?” Hanzo frowned at his brother’s silence, then Genji gave an electric kind of crackle and collapsed.

 

McCree watched with horror as Hanzo and Mercy carried Genji away. The one person he’d told about his enemy had been taken out quicker than a can in a shooting gallery.  
“Hanzo, what happened?” He swept off his hat in worry as Genji sizzled a bit.  
“I…I was talking to him in my room, and then he just collapsed.” Hanzo seemed a little put out, but that was fair – McCree didn’t even think it was possible for someone with that many cybernetics to pass out. Then he stopped in horror. If Genji had told Hanzo about his situation, his darlin’ would be next on the chopping block.  
“Hanzo, what were you talkin’ about? Did he tell you anythin’ about me?”  
Hanzo’s perty mouth worked into a moue of confusion but the archer was distracted when they had to manoeuvre Genji’s deadweight, naked ass down the stairs. “No, McCree.”  
That was it then. The bounty hunter, whoever it was, had made clear that if McCree tried to recruit help, they’d be taken out. This was on him, and by the fires of hell, he was gonna make the vagabond pay true and dear for what they’d done to Genji. And a McCree as mad as a rattler at High Noon was not a McCree anyone lived to tell the tale about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epic story continues. Poor Genji. Never gets a break, does he? Now get ready for High Noon everyone, it's gonna be a fun one ;) Today's country music is [Wanted](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sdPFzmrx6wY), because McCree has labelled bullets and is out to maim someone. Thank you all so much for your wonderful comments and kudos so far, y'all are the best! I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter, so if you got the time to leave me a comment, it would make my day! x) I'm on tumblr as well, posting trash if you're interested. Cheers for reading, my buddies, and stay awesome like my boi Federer ☆*: .｡. o(≧▽≦)o .｡.:*☆
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> 


	12. High Noon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shiet, I just realized the chapter called High Noon is chapter 12. Destiny I tell you.

The rest of the team had left the living quarters for Pharah’s training session, which meant McCree got no questions about his destination. Well, when he said ‘the rest of the team’ he meant the team minus Genji, who was in the MedBay muttering ‘dishonour’ and ‘what the fuck’ in a fevered sleep, and Zenyatta, who had taken on himself to watch over the patient.

At 11.55, the cowboy marched into the canyon at the back of the watchpoint, belt buckle polished, spurs spinnin’ and gun stocked with a peck o’ blue whistlers – though McCree doubted he’d need more than one whichever way this went down. By 11.57, he stood at the rocky red bottom, gun cocked in case the varmint tried to ambush him; after the poison, McCree wouldn’t put it past the outlaw. He had no time tellin’ device, but the cowboy knew deep down in his gut when the clock ticked over to 11.58, could feel the time on the breeze that picked up for his imminent aesthetic tumbleweed. Just as he was about to call out for his opponent to show their skeevy hide, a figure darted up on to a rock ahead of him. A figure he recognized from the foam-filled silhouette hole in his door. A figure who couldn’t possibly be here.  
“Hanzo?” In McCree’s ultimate confusion, he kept his gun up. He thought they’d made up about Susy? Or did the archer know and was trying to help him? Or…what…?  
“McCree, you came!” If the cowboy had been shocked before, it was like he’d been flash-banged by Hanzo’s grin as the archer bounded over and took his weaponless hand. “You got my note and my chocolates and the monogrammed bullets I sent you?”

Oh.  
_Oh._  
_Ohhhhhhhh._  
McCree couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed so hard it echoed around the canyon.  
“You – “ McCree gasped, giggled and wiped his eyes at Hanzo’s now shocked face. “I thought someone was tryna kill me darlin’! You coulda put your name on the note!”  
“I…” Hanzo buried his face in his hands and McCree bet his hat ‘the dragon’ had gone a whole new shade o’ cherry blossom. “I forgot to put my name on it. I, _I_ am the fool!”  
“Yeah, but you’re a dreadful pretty one.” McCree pulled his best dashing grin and used his metal hand to pry Hanzo’s hands away from his eyes, because that was probably the only thing besides a crowbar that’d work. To his guessing credit, Hanzo was red as a rose in June, but didn’t that just make him a picture of beauty and half again? “Now how about you try for that smile I saw before, huh?”  
“So you…you still would like to…” Hanzo looked away as if he hoped McCree might open a High Noon vortex to swallow him and his burning cheeks, but the cowboy didn’t want a repeat of Iowa.  
There were a good fair few who simply just heard the name Iowa and dissolved into eye twitches, heard the sound of jingling spurs and ominous cowboy whistles and had to drink until they forgot again. Ah, the good old days.

Well, if Hanzo was askin’ to be wooed, McCree was the master. He swept off his hat and lifted the man’s hand.  
“Say, was your Pa a farmer?”  
Hanzo lifted his head out of his Shame Pit and frowned. “No, he – “  
“Cause you sure are one fine hoe.” McCree kissed those fingers and Hanzo stared at him for one silent second, then turned around.  
“I’m leaving.”  
What? That was the best pick-up line McCree knew! He caught the other man’s shoulder with a gentle, tentative hand and tried to scramble up a save. “Aw, I’m sorry honey-bunch, I didn’t meant t’ – “

Then he heard Hanzo snicker, then snort-laugh, then break out into uncontrollable peals of laughter, and for the second time today McCree was stunned like an outlaw with a faceful of mule hoof. He didn’t think he’d ever even heard Hanzo laugh, unless it was like a banjo-plagued madman.  
“You are the worst, Jesse McCree, you stupid, sexy cowboy!” Hanzo turned around, still in the throes of laughter and slapped his breastplate with one hand. McCree left out a relieved breath, ‘cause this teasin’ little polecat had got him in a kafuffle for a second there. The archer looked up at him, leaned up against his chest, then suddenly frowned.  
“McCree, do you have any Japanese in you?”  
“I don’t… “ Out of all the things McCree had expected today, a sudden identity crisis hadn’t been one of them.  
“Do you want some?”  
“You - !” McCree gave a delighted bark of laughter. He couldn’t believe it. Hanzo was literally perfect in every way. The cowboy just cupped his arm around the archer’s back, set his hat back on his head and grinned as he looked down at the shorter man. “I do believe I wouldn’t mind that in the slightest.”

Then he dipped down and kissed Hanzo like he’d wanted to for all too long now, just as the clock ticked over to High Noon. The archer moulded right up against him; one hand curled into his serape, and the tattooed one went straight for his ass. Whelp, McCree liked a man that knew want he wanted, and hey, he did have a great ass. After a few moments of wonderful, wonderful High Noon kissing (in which both parties totally thought they saw the sunset and heard romantic orchestral music), the cowboy nuzzled up Hanzo’s jaw with a chuckle.  
“I do gotta ask though…what in tarnation did you put in that chocolate?”  
“Reaper said you liked chilli so I put in the hottest chilli I could…” Hanzo trailed off as McCree wheeze-laughed all over again.  
“And Genji?”  
“I confessed my affection of you to him and I think he collapsed from shock.” Hanzo frowned and looked back toward the watchpoint. “I hope he recovers.”  
“Yer flirtin’ is lethal sweetheart. Goddamn…” The cowboy wiped his eyes, then stole another quick kiss from those soft lips. “Well, I sure as hell ain’t going back to a training session, an’ I hope you’re feelin’ the same.”  
“Sure as hell.” Hanzo affirmed, and McCree grinned at just how cute that phrase was in a deadpan, serious Japanese tone.

After a few hours of just walking they ended up at Starbucks because McCree learned that Hanzo hadn’t had coffee since he was ten years old and that was a federal offense in his book. The archer just about made up for it though, the amount he put down. It was real nice though, one of the best dates McCree had had in his life probably a) his left arm was gone, so it didn’t try to start shit b) his date didn’t try to stab him for his bounty and c) nothing really changed between them, except that Hanzo smiled more, and that was a change he could live with. 

“ – yeah, so that’s what I’m tellin’ you!” McCree explained over a bagel and what had to be Hanzo’s tenth cup of coffee because he wanted to try every flavour.  
“You made an entire code language based on country music songs.” Hanzo raised an eyebrow, but continued his game of footsie under the table. That was Hanzo really, McCree had now decided – on the outside all cool and proper, but a playful little bastard underneath.  
“Got a title for every scenario. Go on, sling one my way.” The cowboy challenged and his date thought for a moment.  
“You’re stealing a vehicle and running away from Overwatch because your fathers grounded you.” Hanzo tried and sipped his drink. Somehow the archer made coffee look like tea, the way he drank, and it was so cute that McCree nudged the man’s shin with his.  
“Ain’t Goin’ Down Til The Sun Comes Up, pard’ner.” McCree winked and tipped his hat as Hanzo nudged his leg back.  
“Hm, what about the entire team is compromised except the member you’re talking to, but a rescue attempt by them would be a trap?” The archer challenged, but Hanzo underestimated his dedication to country music.  
“Carrie Underwood’s Jesus Take The Wheel I’d say.” McCree smirked and finished off his bagel, and Hanzo considered him for a moment.  
“What if…” Whoo boy, this time Hanzo’s foot stroked right up his calf. “You have been having lustful thoughts about your boyfriend all day and can’t wait to take him home to enact them?”  
“Well…” McCree leaned across the table and propped his chin on his hand. “That’d be Burnin’ Ring of Fire by good ol’ Johnny Cash. But if I wanted to get on back right away, I’d insist on Adam Lambert’s entirely inappropriate version.”  
“Adam Lambert it is then.” Hanzo finished his coffee and gave McCree a mocha latte kiss. Which turned into a mocha latte make-out. Which turned into a mocha latte gettin’ your ass kicked outta Starbucks. But they hadn’t been plannin’ on staying anyway.

***

“Make it stop, _someone_ …” Lucio and the those of the team at the watchpoint not in shock comas had gathered in the kitchen because the meeting hall still had chairs embedded in the wall and the Rec Room was a cave, which Lucio was pretty sure now had both bats and a puma in it. Also the kitchen was the place where McCree’s loud cowboy exclamations were more muffled. Lucio hadn’t heard the man ‘yehaw’ this much since a remastered box set of Clint Eastwood had been released, and nobody had any idea what had him so excited. Since the Banjo Curse, everyone was a little more wary of disturbing McCree and his secret cowboy ways, so Team Dad had called a meeting to brainstorm what it might be and how to tackle it without being condemned to Cowboy Vengeance Hell for the next few weeks.

“Did _anyone_ see him with a harmonica?” The commander offered and looked around, but after a moment of horrified eyes, nobody conceded. Thank the music gods for that one, Lucio sighed.  
“We’d hear an instrument if he had one.” Ana sighed, rubbed her forehead and fingered her dart gun, as a needle-induced coma might be the only way any of them would get sleep tonight.  
“He is not watching Westerns because he promised he would watch them with me!” Reinhardt boomed and smacked the counter so hard it cracked.  
“Hanzo, you didn’t – “ Dad turned around to find the kitchen on an archer free diet. “Hanzo?”  
“He’s probably with Genji.” Lucio offered, but honestly he hadn’t seen Hanzo all day.  
“McCree said he was booked out today and then this…” Pharah trailed off and threw a hand up. “Mother, you should check on him. Maybe something…happened.”  
“Like what?” Ana scowled and a particularly loud ‘woohoo buckaroo’ came from upstairs.  
“Perhaps the cowboy gods descended upon him and threw him into a berserker-like state!” Torbjörn stroked his long, flowing beard, which Lucio was pretty sure he’d once lost a pair of headphones in once. But Torbjörn’s beard was like that. It had been a mystery to the musician where the dwarf kept his sentry guns until one day he’d witnessed Torbjörn just reach into his beard and pull one out, legs, barrel and all. “I know this happened with the Vikings…”  
There was a moment’s silence as everyone considered this terrifying possibility.

“All in favour of Ana checking it out?” Dad put his hand up, and everyone else followed, even a sheepish Reinhardt.  
“I’ll get you back for this, Morrison.” Ana glared, but Dad kept a pokerface, or at least his visor did, and she stalked out the room. Everyone else glanced at each other, then tiptoed off after her.

Grandma scowled back at them then headed up the stairs. McCree’s door was just to the left, but from this angle even Reinhardt wouldn’t be able to see what was going on.  
“Jesse…” Ana tapped on what was not a Hanzo-shaped foam, but it was drowned out by another ‘yehaw’. She set her shoulders, opened the door, stopped in shock for one second then slammed it, eye wide.  
“Mother…?” Pharah tried, as Ana hurried down the stairs, ripped open the cupboard door and yanked out a bottle of Deadlock Bourbon. They all watched her take a very long draw, punctuated by more enthusiastic cowboy noises.  
“Ana, my dear?” Reinhardt tried as the sniper came up for air and looked at them all with an eye that had seen things.  
“He was riding that archer’s dick off into the sunset.” Ana said in a kind of hoarse voice and everyone sort of just gaped for a second. Well, that solved the case of Genji’s state of severe shock. “He had boots and a hat on and that was _it_.”  
_“Grandma!”_ Lucio blurted out as Pharah covered her eyes against the mental image.  
“You made me suffer so you get to suffer too!” Ana swigged more Bourbon, and Dad seemed to recover from the fact that honourbitch Hanzo was enthusiastic about ranch-style undressing and frowned at the bottle in Ana’s hand.  
“Where did you get that?”  
“Deadlock. We stole five crates of it.” It seemed Grandma had zero fucks left to give as Dad sank back against the wall with a very, very exasperated facepalm.  
“I wondered why McCree got another ten million added to his bounty.”  
Ana just shrugged and picked up another bottle. “Drink?”

***

It was quiet that morning. Too quiet. Genji, Mercy and Zenyatta emerged from the downstairs MedBay, weapons in hand in response to the strange dead silence.  
“Shhh!” Mercy held up a finger and pointed toward Rec Room II, and they all heard the slight sound of beatboxing. The three of them made it to the kitchen door without a hitch then… “Oh my god.”  
It was the biggest mess Genji had ever seen.

Deadlock whiskey bottles littered the floor. In the centre of them, was someone Genji presumed was Ana, but it was hard to tell because she had a lampshade over her head and was still dabbing with ferocity to Lucio’s beatbox snoring. Speaking of the musician, he was face-down on the couch in a conductor’s outfit that the ninja recognized from a display in the National Museum with his skates on his hands. The conductor pants had ridden low, and all three of them could not miss the very new, colourful ~MAESTRO~ tramp stamp across the top of his ass. A movement to Genji’s left caught his attention, and there was Morrison, covered in jello and making out with a picture of Reaper he’d drawn in Sharpie on the fridge. Why. Why did he always have to see these things.

“Mercy, I have located Reinhardt with his head stuck in the swimming pool ceiling, however I must warn you he is only wearing a small red garment.” Zenyatta floated back in from his reconnaissance mission, seemingly unperturbed by the whole ordeal. “Pharah’s GPS also shows her location as Jamaica, but I do not know if that is related.”  
“What _happened_ here?!?” Mercy finally snapped as Ana continued to dab.  
“Deadlock whiskey.” Genji said in a hushed voice as trauma flashbacks of fruit came flooding back. “Not even once, Mercy. Not even once.”  
_Thud! Fwoosh._  
Something zoomed into the room, bounced off the walls three times, then Genji found his shoulders grabbed by a very wide-eyed Hanzo.  
“Genjibrotheryouarebackitisgoodtoseeyouareyoustilldispleasedwithmeforwantingcowmanbutwhyareyounotwearingclothesstill – “  
“Hanzo!” Genji yelled and grabbed his brother back. “Who in their _right mind_ gave you coffee?!?”

There was a _reason_ the pair of them only drank tea! Genji dreaded to think what would happen if either of them had a powerful energy drink.  
“I did.” A very weak moan came from the kitchen floor behind them, and they turned to see McCree face down on the ground in [pink underpants](http://i3.cpcache.com/product/1113900156/bamf_womens_boy_brief.jpg?color=FuchsiaPink&height=460&width=460&qv=90) that emblazoned BAMF across his butt. “Hanzo, why’d you carry me down here?”  
“MercyMcCreecan’twalkcanyoufixhim.” Hanzo blurted out then whipped his head around as he heard Morrison whisper sweet nothings to the fridge.  
“McCree, why can’t you walk?” Zenyatta was the first to process Hanzo’s double speed caffeine speech.  
“My _ass_. 10/10 though, would do again.” The cowboy groaned, closed his eyes, then promptly fell asleep on the floor, probably for the first time since he’d caffeinated Hanzo. Mercy just pinched her nose for a second, then turned to the others.  
“Come on, it looks like we have a lot of work to do.”

But if the three of them had found the kitchen scene strange, it had nothing on how they found Torbjörn – at the bottom of a mine shaft dug by sentry guns, naked and covered in exactly $2,000 worth of bills, which had been obsolete in all but antique collections for hundreds of years now. To say the least, the mysteries of that morning’s discoveries would probably haunt Genji to the grave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The epic story continues, as does Genji's fridge trauma. Thank you so, so much to everybody who has left kudos and comments especially! You are amazing, and deserve many cookies. Really, you're awesome, so pat yourselves on the back ^.^ Today's country music is [Ring of Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U3AYDZ-gQ2w) and [Adam Lambert's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g-ix3nAM1Q4) entirely [inappropriate version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ja7JcIuvFWc). Also [Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G1CdWr4ZhrI), because it would be a crime not to include that song. And if you liked the chapter, it would mean the world to me if you told me what you thought ! It always makes my day to read your comments n.n Stay awesome buddies! (*ฅ́˘ฅ̀*) .｡.:*♡
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
> **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	13. Towel.

The team survived the next few days without more bourbon-induced disgrace because Lucio mercifully did a round trip of the watchpoints and base with soundproofing material. Although now McCree was worth a whopping $70 million, things got interesting for a while. Symmetra had to lend the cowboy a permanent sentry gun for when he took showers (although Hanzo sometimes stole it so he could oh so coincidentally ‘go to help’ McCree when he resorted to more serape murder) and bounty hunters stopped trying to jump the wanted man in his sleep when they found his chap-enhanced ass guarded by two very protective dragons. But it was when the team got sent to Dorado for a routine check that the first real threat popped up. Or at least a threat to Hanzo’s serape-shower indulgencies did. 

Everyone wondered why Team Dad stopped for about a minute straight and stared at the early morning beach-goers. In fact, he zoned out for so long, Tracer wondered whether he’d fallen back into war flashbacks or tangoing Reaper flashbacks. Then the old man turned around, pointed a finger at McCree and quietly, oh so quietly said ‘towel.’  
“Oh hell no!” McCree exclaimed, turned and pelted off down the road. Zenyatta and Genji grabbed Hanzo as the archer tried to cover his man’s retreat, which left an opening for Tracer. They’d all been exposed to some form of the very, _very_ holey serape towel and she would be a glad partaker in freeing them all from trauma.  
“I’ve got you in my sights McCree!” Dad yelled as Tracer tripped the cowboy up, but was thrown for a second when he did a perfect tumbleweed roll and continued to run. Not for long. She blinked in behind him and went straight for the knees. Tumbleweed out of _that_ , cheeky lad.

And that’s what D.Va saw when she walked back from the beachfront with her 10am ice cream: Hanzo being continuously sedated by a harmony orb pressed directly onto his forehead while further up, Tracer and Team Dad dogpiled McCree. A normal Overwatch outing then.

 

“Now don’t let him out until he’s bought a towel.” Morrison growled at the security guards of a mall simply called Todo (Everything). The guards swallowed as they took in the best sharpshooter in possibly the world being booted into their shop by Batman Voice In A Visor who didn’t speak their language, so they both just nodded and prayed their island wouldn’t suffer the same fate as Iowa.  
“Yer backbitin’ rattlers!” McCree grumped, but headed inside as Dad patted his gun in a menacing kind of way. There wasn’t much danger of being shot, but Tracer could attest that you hadn’t been pistol whipped until you’d been pistol whipped by a two-handed pulse rifle.  
“Think he’ll get one, love?” Tracer wondered as they made their way back toward where Hanzo had probably been made so tranquil he was about to Ascend.  
“He better.” Dad growled. “I doubt that thing has been washed since it was bought, and now that Hanzo’s dragons have taken to sleeping in it…”

The soldier trailed off as he spotted a crying little girl on the steps of a building down an alley. A tick twitched in the man’s temple as his Dad Instincts surged over him in a mighty wave, although Tracer could agree; she was never one to overlook a child in distress. Morrison let his giant, threatening gun hang by his side, walked into the alley and knelt beside the girl.  
“Are you alright?” He said in his least Batman-like tone.  
“I – _sniff_ – my mother was hanging the decorations for the Festival de la Luz, and, and I got lost on the way to the store!” The girl said in tearful, halting English.  
“Don’t worry love, the cavalry’s here!” The British Agent gave her trademark salute and the child seemed to brighten up a bit.  
“How about we escort you to the store, then go look for your mother, hm?” Morrison reached into a cold compartment of his jacket and pulled out his emergency yoghurt and spoon. “Now that might cheer you up on the way, and it’s got lots of calcium in it too.”  
The girl nodded happily and took the yoghurt, then Tracer felt a sharp pain in the side of her neck, and saw a bright dart hit Soldier Dad too.  
“You never could resist a child in distress, could you 76?” A Los Muertos punk crowed, and the girl giggled then scampered away behind the other gang members with her yoghurt as Tracer’s vision faded. Now that was just playing dirty. You couldn’t take advantage of a dad like that. “We’re stronger than the last time you came after us. And with the rest of your team taken care of, we _will_ get McCree.”  
And then everything went black.

Hanzo bounded up the nearest wall. He couldn’t believe that plan had actually worked, but maybe hanging around McCree more resulted in ideas that probably were stupid but somehow succeeded. As the Robot Duo made him tranquil, a motherly woman had begun to hang piñatas up on the awning beside them. He’d simply cried ‘look, piñatas!’ and both Genji and Zenyatta had paused in making him Become One with the Universe. In that pause, he’d regained some spirit and hopefully some honour, and sprinted off to save his serape kink. D.Va, it seemed, didn’t actually care enough to fly up and search for him, and he’d shaken Genji a while back, so it looked like Hanzo was in the clear. Although…the archer frowned as he heard the muffled but undeniable arrangement of country music from an alleyway below. McCree? Had he escaped?  
_I like this song!_ Hotaru popped up and peered down with interest. Hanzo had to admit it – this one did almost have his foot tapping, and he wondered what it was called.  
_We should go down and ask!_ Hige urged, and the archer took a moment to wonder when he and his dragons had become such country trash. Well, his dragons were trash for everything really. There had been one point in time when they’d stolen his tablet at night to become Star Trek trash, and nobody had been able to say the word ‘space’ around him without it being followed by a draconic hiss of ‘the final frontier’. So the archer clambered down the building, opened the door and was immediately shot in the neck by a dart trap meant for countryfuck McCree.

  
“He’s gone.” Genji sighed and dropped down back beside Zenyatta, who was looking at a broken piñata that hung in front of him. Then again, he _supposed_ that Hanzo hadn’t protested his lack of clothes as much as he could have, so he could allow McCree’s scandalous serape once in a while.  
“This is…strangely satisfying.” The zen master hummed and gave the next piñata The Sandal. Candy littered the ground, which the ninja collected and piled into Zenyatta’s lap for later. He’d ask to store them in D.Va’s mech, which she had climbed in to play Starcraft while they waited for Morrison and Tracer to return, but she’d probably eat them all. If only there were beef jerky piñatas. Genji stood up and punched the next one just out of curiosity. It exploded. An EMP shockwave flashed out of the colourful horse and all three of them hit the deck along with a smatter of candy. Before D.Va could open her manual hatch, three Los Muertos members taped it up with super-strength duct tape as the other four hauled the deadweight cyborg and omnic into a waiting van.

***

“Where is he?!”  
Hanzo blinked awake to see a purple-haired Los Muertos gang member punch Morrison in the visor, then howl in pain as he clutched his fist. These people weren’t masterminds, were they? Then again…Hanzo looked around with blurred vision. They seemed to be at the end of the single road in a ramshackle town somewhere outside of Dorado. The buildings were like what Hanzo had seen in McCree’s Westerns – old, worn, with barrels and a huge, ancient clock up on the façade of one, which read 11am. Genji and Zenyatta were hog-tied in electric omnic restraints beside him, D.Va was mechless and tied up beside Tracer, and Morrison had been pulled up in front of them to be interrogated, if that’s what one could call this feeble attempt.  
“Obi Juan, he’s awake!” A gangster beside Hanzo yelled and dragged the hog tied archer up beside Morrison. They’d omnic-restrained him too, because his metal legs could probably win this war by themselves if let loose, and if he tried to shoot Hige and Hotaru out his arm, it’d go somewhere behind him. Judging from their hash of a job so far, Hanzo reckoned that all of this had just been a lucky mistake, and he was completely and utterly right.  
“You!” Obi Juan stalked over, face twisted in frustration as the archer was pulled up onto his knees. “You walked into the Cotton Eye Joe trap set for McCree. You must be his friend.”

Every eye from the team turned on him in Extreme Judgement. Hanzo wasn’t sure whether he was more phased by that, or by the fact that the entirety of Los Muertos believed that everyone who liked Cotton Eye Joe were somehow connected. Well, that could be the case. With ghost-banjo cowboy magic, anything was possible really, but Hanzo wasn’t sure he was ready for that level of country music brotherhood commitment yet.  
“Dishonour.” Was all Genji had to add.  
“Naked.” Was all Hanzo replied back, and then had his com thrust in front of his face as Tracer made an expression of sudden, horrified realization and Zenyatta managed to look strangely ambivalent with his unchanging robot face.  
“You will tell McCree to come and meet you at your GPS location immediately, or we will put a bullet through your commander’s head.” Obi Juan turned to one of his entourage, who clicked a gun against Morrison’s temple.  
“Assuming that doesn’t break on his visor too.” Hanzo looked pointedly at the boss’s bruised knuckles and D.Va huffed out a laugh before Obi Juan could give him The Slap.  
“Ooh, get fucking rekt.” She called, and Hanzo thought he could perhaps forgive her a little bit for spreading around his ‘secret rice formula’.  
“Arturito, gag them.” Obi Juan growled and glowered at Morrison. “You make a sound and the pink child gets it.”

Oh, they’d honed in on Morrison’s Dad Instinct like bees to pollen, although Hanzo wasn’t sure who else out of Overwatch Los Muertos had actually interacted with. They knew McCree liked country music, but literally anyone in the entire world with half a braincell could work that one out. Perhaps they’d never fought McCree. That could work in their favour, the archer thought as Obi Juan flicked through the pseudonyms on Hanzo’s comm.  
“Which one is it, rice cakes?” The gangster growled, and Hanzo was pretty sure that had meant to sound threatening but just came out a little too flirty. Obi Juan looked between Zenyatta and Genji as he scrolled past ‘Naked’ and ‘Balls’, and the gun got shoved a little more vigorously at Morrison. It was testament enough that this fool couldn’t recognize McCree from the alias Hanzo had given him that Los Muertos wasn’t acquainted with the cowboy.  
“….that one.” Hanzo cringed and prayed to his ancestors that the man didn’t read it out –  
“Boot-Scootin’ Booty-Poppin’ Rodeo-Ridin’ Fuckhunk?” Obi Juan raised an eyebrow, along with all those present who actually had eyebrows. Zenyatta just raised himself slightly.  
“McCree…did that.” Hanzo lied and wondered why life had to expose him like this as Genji went into laughing hysterics so badly that they had to amp up the power on the omnic muzzle to silence him again.  
“You better be telling the truth.” Obi Juan glared, then hit call on speakerphone. As Overwatch agents only texted or used the comm feature, Hanzo hoped McCree would figure out that something was wrong.

“Hey honey-bunch!” McCree sounded a little strained, and Hanzo swore he heard the crackle of flames in the background. Oh dear. The archer wondered how much of the towel store was left. “Hey, y’know I was wonderin’ what your favourite country song was!”  
He really did pick his moments to be a country fuck didn’t he?  
“Jesse – “  
“Oh come on now darlin’ don’t leave me hangin’.” McCree teased, and - oh. _Oh._ His favourite _country_ song. The ridiculous code that McCree had been trying to teach him for the past week. 

Hanzo glanced around and weighed up the worth of Morrison’s life versus admitting to love Carrie Underwood, but in the end Morrison came out on top. Just. Obi Juan shook the phone in impatience.  
“Jesus Take The Wheel, McCree.” Hanzo held his head high as Genji seemed to have a minor hysterics seizure behind him in forced silence. Literal tears dripped out of his face mask. Morrison’s eyebrows had flown so high they could be Winston on a peanut butter overdose, and D.Va looked like a cat with every bottle of cream in the world. Hanzo may survive this, but at what cost? “Now _you_ listen. Meet the team at my GPS as soon as you can. Goodbye for now.”  
“Adios, mi amor.” McCree purred and Hanzo could feel his wink from here. Obi Juan just ended the call, stared at Hanzo for a good thirty seconds, then lifted up his shirt to show the archer a tattoo of what Hanzo assumed was Carrie Underwood’s face, because it had Carrie Underwood written beneath it in cursive.  
“When we get McCree, you are welcome to have a place in our gang.” He then turned and started to yell in Spanish at his cronies as Hanzo wondered if this day could get even more weird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will the Overwatch Agents escape the clutches of the Los Muertos gangsters? Is Hanzo's honour lost forever? Will McCree ever get a towel? Tune in next week for more insanity. I'm sorry not sorry for the Mexican names. 8) Today's country music is [Shackles, Ropes and Chains](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RX3t7dLUxY8) for obvious reasons :P As always, I would love to hear what you thought of the chapter, y'all always inspire me to write more and make my day! A huge thanks to everybody who already has left such positive comments and kudos on this silly thing...I wouldn't be doing it without you (つ≧▽≦)つ⊂(・ヮ・⊂) Stay awesome everyone! ☆.｡.:*(＾▽＾).｡.:*☆
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	14. The Hook 'n Cook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In memory of Hook 1.0. Title sponsored by Muselk*  
> *ᵗᶦᵗᶫᵉ ᶰᵒᵗ ᵃᶜᵗᵘᵃᶫᶫʸ ˢᵖᵒᶰˢᵒʳᵉᵈ ᵇʸ ᵐᵘˢᵉᶫᵏ

Hanzo was not the only one who’d had a strange day. McCree had tried, he really had. He’d gone into the store, and asked an assistant for where the towels were in perfect cowboy-slang Spanish. The assistant had shot him a confused look and asked him to elaborate on his bean simile for some reason. McCree, always the gentleman, had explained it and also that he wanted to get a towel. The assistant asked him something along the lines of whether he wanted to cook them beans to buy a towel, so McCree had agreed to this bargain, fetched a can of their beans, lit a fire in their Camping Supplies section, and was still confused as to why in tarnation the shop assistant wanted cooked beans in exchange for a towel. They’d hung around and watched him with a bewildered look for a while, as McCree watched them back with similar befuddlement. Just as McCree took out Peacemaker to shoot the can open (because he was too lazy to grab a tin opener and it’d be hot) the assistant had moved forward to say something, then taken a look at his gun and backed off again. 

Meanwhile, the shop assistant wondered why a crazy man dressed as a cowboy had lit a fire in their store and started cooking canned beans which he seemed avid to defend with an ancient six-shooter, when all the assistant had done was ask him to clarify whether he wanted to find the beans or the towels.  
Thankfully, their confusing situation had been resolved by Hanzo’s suspicious call, and so while the security guards were distracted by his indoor campfire, the cowboy had high-tailed it still with no towel.

“Hells bells Hanzo, how’d y’all get into a Jesus Take The Wheel?” McCree sighed to himself, almost one hour and definitely 5 speeding tickets from police cameras later. He pulled up outside the town in his stolen pickup truck behind some convenient fallen saguaro cacti that sensed their aesthetic master was near and needed cover. The Cowboy Sorcerer Supreme hadn’t noticed that spontaneous growths of saguaro cacti had blossomed into full growth to cover his _entire_ journey across the desert to the Los Muertos frontier town, and the confused lookouts had never seen a pickup truck, only a rather Shakespearian approach of desert foliage. 

McCree leaned out of the rust-speckled window and peered through the cacti with the Trusty Clint Squintᵀᴹ. Six of them‘un cultus gangsters stood here and there on guard; three as lookouts on the roof, two as snipers in the windows and one blocked the entrance under the town boundary posts. Green sticks shoulda known better than to challenge a cowboy in his natural habitat, but even for him this might be a challenge, especially with the time limit he had. But life wouldn’t be a good ol’ whoop in the coop if it weren’t a challenge.

The cowboy rubbed his hands together with desert sand, picked a saguaro cactus flower from the fallen plant, then pricked his thumb on a spine. This plan had a fair to middlin’ chance of success, especially given the aesthetic landscape and trajectory of the sun. McCree rubbed his blood all on across the cactus flower, whipped out his essential, ancient 24 Country Yodelling Classics CD (which Lucio had tried and failed to violently murder on exactly one hundred and fifty seven different accounts) from his serape and munched on the flower as he chanted the artists’ names. Whatever Los Muertos had expected, none of them had counted on the sheer weirdness of McCree.

 

Sítrípio shaded her eyes as she looked out at the strange forest of cacti that she swore hadn’t been there under an hour before. They’d reported it to Obi Juan, but no-one had really known what to think of it, only that perhaps it was a collective hallucination by everybody present or a very insistent mirage. But either way, Sítrípio would do her job and pray this giant forest of possibly mystical cacti wasn’t something directed at them. She did another scan of the landscape for any sort of approaching vehicle, when a soft yodel caught her ear. What _was_ that? So soft and sweet and tender and mild. 

The fluro-haired gangster guard clutched her gun with delight at the muffled yodelling in the distance just as her buddy sniper in the window beckoned her.  
“Come on!” Leja smiled with what outsiders might have perceived as a creepy kind of serenity, and before Sítrípio knew it, she and the other five guards were holding hands and skipping into the maze of saguaro cacti in a fit of yodel-induced insanity. They were found three years later, hardened and wizened to the cacti maze. The six gangsters started a guide business of horror tours through the mystical place, said to be haunted by the yodelling of a ghost cowboy who would lead you to your doom.

***

It had almost been an hour in the hot sun. Hanzo lay face down in the road dirt a) because he’d hit rock bottom Dishonour wise since the Genji incident and b) he didn’t want to get sunburned. At least he could see the clock when he glanced up; a ticking countdown timer to when McCoaster McMuncher would heroically swoop in and save the day or get anticlimactically shot and become the most expensive corpse since Tutankhamun. Morrison, out of all of them, had had the foresight to wear sunscreen on the only exposed part of his body (his forehead), unlike Tracer who would probably look like Raspberry Ripple by the end of this. She and D.Va took turns at crawling into Morrison’s shadow (or the Dadow as Tracer had taken to calling it). As for Genji and Zenyatta…well, Obi Juan and the gang had become hungry in their wait for McCree. Genji had an egg frying on each naked metal butt cheek, sausages up his back and beans sizzling away on his shoulders as he lay in a fairly similar position to Hanzo. Zenyatta just had a single egg frying on his head like a strange kind of hat. How it hurt Hanzo to see the honourable monk used like this. Of course, Genji was always the grill bitch whenever the Overwatch team needed an impromptu barbeque, so he was in his element. Or he had become an element. Hanzo groaned to himself as he realized that he too had become infected by Reaper’s puns. Would the dishonour of this day ever end?

“Hanzo, are you alright?” Morrison turned toward his pun-induced groan, as if the commander might be able to open his visor, cough up a healing pod like a bird and launch it at the prone archer if he was in some kind of pain. Hanzo frowned at that mental image, which was up there with pie-face Zenyatta in levels of horrific, then snuck another glance at the clock. Come on McCree…

Just on time, over Genji’s sizzling buttocks, Hanzo’s trained ears picked up a sound. A beautiful sound. A very specific _jingle._  
“Hai.” He sighed and rolled back onto his knees, a little smug. The others hadn’t noticed. The gang members hadn’t noticed. Nobody had noticed one very important thing.

“It’s – “  
The clock chimed, and a warm wind rushed toward the glow of Wild West Witchcraft, newly conjured tumbleweed bouncing along with it. 

“High – “  
As if in slow motion, Hanzo took in the bemused squints and frowns at the glowing cowboy on the balcony of the opposite building and the usual disembodied whistling.

“Noon.”  
Aesthetic guitars strummed, probably the spirits of McCree’s long dead country music accomplices (Hanzo _swore_ he heard a familiar banjo in there this time), and then hatass’s six shooter spat out around fifteen bullets. And people said Hanzo’s Magic Dragon Arm was beyond belief. The Los Muertos gangsters didn’t even have time to wrap their heads around the fact that they were about to be killed by a supernatural cowboy cosplayer before they hit the ground.

“Like shootin’ fish in a barrel.” McCree drawled and bounded down off the balcony, so cool, and calm; his serape fluttered in the breeze, his hat cast a dramatic shadow over his eyes, like something straight out of a Western or Hanzo’s fantasies…his nose decided it was too much either way. Not to mention the murder and ongoing Genji Grill made this a perfect date.  
“McCree look out!” Tracer yelled, and Hanzo, so lost in the romance of the situation, hadn’t noticed Obi Juan. He had been inside the clock building by chance at High Noon and now stood behind the cowboy, gun in hand, pointed straight at McCree’s head.  
“Got you.” Right as Obi Juan’s finger moved to squeeze the trigger, something sailed out of the ground. An ice-covered, trans-dimensional hook flew out of Dorado’s sandy desert, latched around Obi Juan and yanked him presumably into the Self-Hook Void Genji’s reflect had accidentally sent Roadhog into last Tuesday. 

Everyone stared at the ground in silence in a moment of shock, then McCree gave himself a little shake and turned back to his hog-tied companions.  
“Is that lunch I smell?” The cowboy strode over and picked the egg off Zenyatta’s head with his metal hand.  
“Egg-sperience Tranquility.” The monk didn’t even skip a beat. No. No. Hanzo took everything he’d thought about the shame of Zenyatta being dishonoured back. Somewhere deep in the Talon Drama Den of Darkness, Reaper felt a sudden swell of inexplicable pride and decided for no reason whatsoever to whip up a very extravagant pair of Zenyatta-sized yoga pants for his next visit to Overwatch.

“McCree, how did you know it was a trap?” Morrison frowned after they’d all recovered emotionally, physically and spiritually from the unexpected Monk Pun.  
“Hanzo used the code Jesus Take The Wheel.” McCree offered as he undid their restraints with half an egg in his mouth. How the man switched between Cowboy Dream.png and Eggface McMuffin, Hanzo had no idea, and why he was attracted to both of them, the older Shimada put down to either a mid-life crisis or oncoming senility. “So I knew it was a trap.”  
D.Va made the most surprising laugh-snort, and butt-shuffled toward the Mexican style Nantaimori their captors had prepared, and the others followed her lead. “You two are literally the least cool people in the entire world.”  
Before Hanzo could go into another Dishonour Coma, McCree kicked back against a wild west barrel that Hanzo swore hadn’t been there a moment ago. “We may be uncool, but which good lookin’ cowboy and perty-eyed archer just saved the day?”

D.Va sighed in resignation, and secretly considered the option of Deadlock Whiskey Coma to help her forget she’d been saved by High Noon.  
“But finally McCree, someone learned your county music code for the first time in 20 years!” Tracer clasped her hands and batted her eyelashes at them both as Morrison punted the dead Los Muertos gangsters away from their impromptu picnic circle around Genji. “You’re made for each other!”  
“I’d like to say that we are.” McCree winked and squeezed Hanzo’s hand. The archer threw all propriety to the wind and leaned up to kiss Eggface.  
“I’m glad you’re ok.” Hanzo smiled up at those warm brown eyes as Morrison handed out the gangster’s plates and utensils that hadn’t got spattered with blood.  
“I’m glad you’re ok too, honeybunch.” McCree kissed Hanzo’s nose as he dabbed the nosebleed blood the archer had all but forgotten about off his face with that wonderful serape. Genji made over-exaggerated gagging noises in the background, and Hanzo wondered how much force would be excusable as an accident when spearing an egg off one’s brother’s buttocks with a stolen fork.  
“Do you think Roadhog is alright?” Zenyatta inquired. Having got hooked by Roadhog in the Overwatch Annual Game of Extreme Tag, Hanzo and the others knew that nobody was ever ok with being hooked. But now that Obi Juan had interrupted the amassing velocity of the possibly eternal Self-Hook Vortex, he should be fine.  
“Lunch first. Then we’ll find Roadhog. From the ice on the hook, he’s somewhere cold.” Morrison growled, helped himself to one of Genji’s sausages, removed his visor to enable consumption, and in doing so revealed the most ridiculous tan line Hanzo had seen in his entire life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you spot the three Mexican Star Wars references, you get a gold star. Today's country music is [this one,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RznWJUkwXEM) because I'm 90% sure it's about Cowboy Witchcraft. But! Penultimate chapter, guys! I'll be sad to finish it! It's been really wonderful hearing how much people laugh at this; I'm glad to bring some joy into the world ♡ Hope y'all enjoyed this bit - I'd love to know what you thought of the chapter. A comment would make my day \^.^/ Stay awesome buddies ✧ ─=≡Σ((( つ•̀ω•́)つ
> 
> If y'all like me writing and wanted to support me somehow you can:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too :P  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


	15. Selling McCree? What Happens Next Will Shock You!

Bill day was always a stressful one when you ran a secret organization that was probably illegal and had no government funding. So Winston picked up a jar of therapeutic peanut butter and hunkered down in front of Athena as she printed off this month’s bills. It usually wasn’t more than Winston’s science patent money and the often very generous donations to ‘Oversight’s Home For The Special’ could cover; food, gas, power, ammunition and internet mainly. Sometimes there were outliers, but…the scientist frowned as Athena spat out three pages. What…? The first page was just the normal stuff, but when he flipped over…

Account – Oversight’s Home For The Special

Transactions: To Pay

Pastry x 200 $1200  
Sugar x 200 $1000  
Cream x 1000 $2400  
Flour x 200 $300  
Ice Cream x 500 $1500  
Milk x 100 $300  
Eggs x 100 $500  
Butter x 50 $250  
Sake x28 $1120  
Doors x 2 $800  
Floor material $60  
Speeding tickets x 12 $4,800  
Golf course x1 $4,000,000  
Insurance therapy for golfers x 20 $20,000  
Beef Jerky x 50 $450  
Bed Bath & Beyond – window replacement x 1 $600  
Bouncy castle x1 $600  
Chairs x24 $1200  
Meeting hall table x1 $2000  
Fruit Stall Reparations $500  
Indecent Exposure charge x1 $1,000  
Chocolate x 4 $16  
California Reapers x5 $30  
Engraved bullets x5 $500  
Starbucks x10 $400  
Jamaican Resort Fees (1 Fareeha Amari) $300  
Ceiling damage repairs x1 $60  
Pedro’s Tattoo Boutique x1 $300  
Antique conductor’s uniform $500,000  
Todos – indoor fire compensation $2000  
Speeding fines x6 $240

Total: $4,545,426 

Winston stared. How. _How??_ He didn’t know where to start. How had Hanzo spent $1120 on sake alone in just one month? That was like, a bottle a day! Why was there an antique conductor’s uniform here? And so, so much pastry?? What on this sweet green earth had these trained undercover agents done to get charged for a golf course, a bouncy castle, and 450 dollars’ worth of _beef jerky???_ Winston swallowed, in a daze of denial, and flipped over to the last page.

For a moment, the organizer of Overwatch sighed with relief: there was only one bill on this. Then, at a second glance he saw…it was from NASA? Several pictures showed a satellite with two vicious, golf-ball-sized holes in the side, and beneath that were neat satellite images leading all the way back to the happy, upturned faces of one Aleksandra Zaryanova and one Reinhardt Wilhelm.

Bill: Oversight’s Home For the Special

Satellite x1 $50,000,000 

Which made a grand total of $54,545,426, not to mention the other page of basic monthly stuff.

The gorilla took a deep breath. Put the papers and his peanut butter down. For a moment, he thought he was about to go into a very long monkey rage or simply faint and hope this was all a bad dream. But being a scientist, he was more sensible than that. There was only one way out of this. They were going to have to sell McCree.

 

***

“We are _not_ selling McCree!” Morrison barked at the entire team, including Winston, as the whole ordeal went against his stanDads. Everyone, _everyone_ had gathered in Gibraltar to discuss this new unforeseen (although they probably should have foreseen) crisis, except Lucio, who literally had his own concert to attend and D.Va who had to go to a Convention, because she actually had a job as well. Luckily, Gibraltar’s meeting room hadn’t been competitively destroyed, so it wasn’t a kitchen party like last time. Two ballot boxes sat in the back of the room, labelled ‘Sell McCree’ and ‘Run???’, but they hadn’t come to a decision to vote yet. The cashcow himself had been tackled into the back corner of the room by Reaper, who was currently clinging to him like a cat on a very, very high branch and growling at anyone who came close. Widowmaker, unbeknown to everyone, sat in a vent to watch the whole debacle while Ana and Pharah poured over the bills, a holographic notebook beside them for calculations and improbable solutions to this mess as the others brainstormed.

“We would rescue him afterwards, so it wouldn’t be permanent… “ Symmetra offered, but Morrison shook his head and crossed his arms.  
“Hanzo and I were cut off from the Shimada clan funds when we hit the double D’s, so we can’t help.” Genji sighed, and Zarya raised an eyebrow at Hanzo’s exposed titty.  
“You are not double D.” She pointed at his nipple and the archer glared at his brother for deciding to always refer to their past as such.  
“Dismemberment and dishonour. Our clan would not cut us off for breast size.” Hanzo clarified, although the real reason he had very little money was the fact that he put down sake like water.  
“Else y’all’ve been cut off years ago!” McCree yelled from his protective Shadow Noodle on the opposite side of the room.  
“Boy, did you just say ‘y’all’dve?’” Morrison barked, and received a feral growl from Drama Dad.  
“Winston, Symmetra and I have some money from our science work, but I don’t think that’s enough, even with Zarya’s various weightlifting championship prize money.” Mei put in with a sad pout, and the Amari ladies added more to their calculations.

“We’re still at least 53 million dollars short.” Ana concluded after exactly a 1 second pause.  
“I have my pension – “  
“No, Reinhardt, we can’t go that far!” Tracer grabbed grandad’s bulging bicep in distress.  
“I have a bit of something from my medical work, but a lot of it was voluntary – nowhere near 50 million.” Mercy sighed, and input some numbers on Pharah’s holonotebook.  
“And my funds are all in the family account.” Torbjorn ran his fingers through his luscious beard, and extracted a few ancient hundred dollar bills from the mysterious Deadlock Whiskey incident. “I couldn’t let them go hungry, even for this, but I could get a bit.”  
“We could steal it, ooh hoo hoo!” Junkrat clapped his hands together and bounced up and down with the prospect. Roadhog, freshly recovered from his traumatic hook karma, gave a grunt of approval.  
“No! Then we’re no better than the gangs and organizations we oppose.” Morrison growled, and slammed his palms on the table as the criminal Australians shared a disappointed look.  
“Boop.” Bastion added in a sad whistle, and Zenyatta patted the robot's square metal head in consolation.  
“There are always options. After fresh eyes and fresh considerations, we may yet find a solution.” The monk added, although what other considerations they might make about finding over 50 million dollars, Hanzo had no clue. They could kill the tax collectors, but Overwatch had a bad enough name as it was. They could get _Reaper_ to kill the tax collectors.

“Just sell– mph!” Whatever McCree had tried to yell was muffled by a clawed goth hand.  
“T̡͟͝H̴̡͝E͞͏ V̶̡A̧N̴̶̸!” Reaper growled and whipped his masked face toward each of them in a fervent, even Junkrat-esque kind of way. “He said sell the van.”  
“Well we could but – “  
“Whoooooooohooooo!” Lucio burst through the door in his ‘borrowed’ conductors outfit with a bottle of champagne in each hand, covered in confetti. “Who just had the best concert of their lives? El sorprendente español!!”

The musician stopped at the sight of Morrison braced on the table like he was planning a war, Winston surrounded by at least ten jars of therapy peanut butter, two ballot boxes labelled ‘Sell McCree’ and ‘Run???’ and a cowboy being smothered by what looked like a very agitated shadow in the far corner. A champagne cork popped in the ensuing silence, which Genji sadly deflected into the trash.  
“What did I miss?”  
“Our bill for the month is over 50 million US dollars. We…have no way to pay it other than barter off McCree.” Ana shared the grim news, but Lucio didn’t seem to fall into The Pit Of Despair with them. That or he was in denial, Hanzo thought. Or the man simply couldn’t be anything than happy and energetic. Oh to be young and sober again.  
“I got you covered guys, you don’t need to worry!” Lucio laughed like the ray of pure sunshine he was, and the whole team stared at him in disbelief.  
“What?” Zayra was the first to voice their confusion, and Lucio raised his eyebrows as if incredulous, then stopped to look at them.  
“Guys, I earn, like, twice that a year, not to mention that multilingual rap album you helped me with has already gone gold.” Lucio, the international superstar, shrugged and handed a dumbfounded Mercy his opened bottle of champagne. “Who did you think sends the donations into Overwatch? Me ‘n D.Va, we got you covered man.”

Winston broke the silence by bursting into relieved monkey sobs, which Tracer immediately rushed over to brighten up, and Hanzo let out all his tension in a subtle breath. McCree, on the other hand, took in a huge gasp of air as Reaper stopped smothering him into silent unconsciousness.  
“Gee whizz, Lucio, I owe you one and a half.” The 70 million dollar man tipped his hat and shot Beyonce in rollerskates a wink.  
“Call it even for the cowboy rap. The fans are loving it!”.” Lucio grinned and pulled another champagne bottle out of his bag. “Now who’s ready to party it _up_ in here?!?!”  
“Just as long as there is _no_ Deadlock Whiskey _anywhere_.” Morrison pointed a finger around at all of them, who nodded. 

They’d learned their lesson. By the ancestors, had they learned, and those who hadn’t had first hand experience had seen the wreckage left behind. Except D.Va, who had taken up on her promise to herself and would be found the next morning in Uzbekistan, having mailed herself there, dressed as a can of energy drink with a new criminal record of spray-painting the word n00bs across at least 100 houses.  
“So long as there aren’t any refrigerators anywhere.” McCree muttered, but either it was too quiet for Morrison to hear, or he ignored it because he knew there was a mini fridge downstairs. Oh the fun to be had with a mini fridge.

And so everybody drank champagne (except Genji, who just poured it all over himself to Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me), danced (Widowmaker and Reaper pulled out the Rumba this time) listened to their collaborative rap album and just enjoyed the company of their weird, adopted family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My maths is literally The Worst. I calculated that three times and got three different answers, so y'all get answer #3. I was also drunk. I did try to do columns, but the formatting was like son, no. Today's country music is [Dos Bros](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OrEy3gShanY) by the Bosshoss because it's a party and one of you lovelies recommended me the band ;) But that's this little trashfest over! I might write another one if I come up with a vague storyline and have another fit of insanity, so keep a weather eye. McCree might even get a towel. In any case, I would love to hear what you thought of this little ending! I hope you liked it n.n Anyway, thank you so much for reading this whole crazy thing - it's been such a wonderful experience joining the Overwatch fandom, and y'all are the reason for it! So many thanks to everyone who has commented and left kudos as well. You are all the ye to my haw. ♡ Stay hawesomeˢᵒʳʳʸ, I know you will! (∿°○°)∿ ︵ ǝʌol  
> If you like Star Trek, I have some ridiculous star trek fics too. I write many ridiculous things. 
> 
> And as always, if you'd like to support me:
> 
>  **-** Check out [ my original published novel!](https://www.kobo.com/nz/en/ebook/tea-in-the-outback) It is also humorous, gay and, by an odd twist of fate, has a protagonist called Jessie too **and a tango ghost, and a dragon who just wants tea and 100% sass what more do u want**  
>  **-** Check out my [McCree: Wanted Poster shirt](http://www.redbubble.com/people/dur-baneth/works/23867256-wanted?asc=u) if you love the derpy cowboy as much as I do.  
>  **-** And if you're feeling generous, you can [shout me a drink!](https://www.paypal.com/cgi-bin/webscr?cmd=_s-xclick&hosted_button_id=TT3Q6W95QFSM2) ^.^♡  
> Stay awesome everyone ｄ(ﾟ∀ﾟ)


End file.
